


A Threat of Thaw

by YoursHopefully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoursHopefully/pseuds/YoursHopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winning back the North and restoring order to Westeros proves easier when you've got the endorsement of a Targaryen queen, a loyal Hound, and a tamed dragon on your side. Sansa grows, her journey of empowerment taking wing with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alayne

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

Breath coiled into little wisps and whorls in the cold air of the room.

_Winter is coming._

Her thoughts were with Sansa Stark's memories. The stolid, stoic words of House Stark.

But Alayne Stone was the by-blow of Petyr Baelish. Not a trueborn daughter of a noble house. Petyr Baelish was a man who had risen up from a penniless beginning to great wealth. His fortune came from a gift for multiplying one golden dragon into ten. He had gotten his natural daughter on some southron maid and gone on his way, only discovering he had a child after her mother's death many years after. Alayne Stone was gently bred by the Faith.

She was brought to the stony, sheep shit covered land of the Fingers where the Baelish family made their seat. There her father married the great Lady of the Vale, Lysa Arryn. A doughy, frizzled woman with soft hands and a shapeless body gone to fat. Alayne had dutifully followed her father into his new role as the doting husband. There they came to rest upon the high keep of the Eyrie.

Now winter had come. Lady Lysa was dead. Alayne's father was Lord Paramount of the Trident along with his title of Lord Protector of the Vale. Until his stepson Robert came of age, he reigned over the Vale.

"Now you pay your pillow tax, sweeting. Let us hear of these delicious fantasies or bygone trysts," purred Myranda, a widowed daughter of Lord Nestor Royce. The other girl stretched catlike beside Alayne in their big bed they shared in the keep. Her father served as High Steward of the Vale as well as the castellan here the Gates of the Moon. The wintering hold of the Arryn's lay at the base of the great mountain and marked the start of a winding journey to the peak where the Eyrie sat.

This was their only option for a home during the icy tempers of the mountains. If they had remained at the Eyrie, no passage to the Vale below would be possible until the spring. No supplies, no way out. Cannibalism wasn't a courteous act by most standards, so the household made the decent for a well supplied wintering.

Alayne could feel a blush warming her cold cheeks. The fire in the hearth had been banked before bed. Any warmth from the heated stones slid between the featherbed and the bed slats had leached out earlier into their freezing toes. Lady Myranda – or her preferred address of Randa in private – made for a good companion to help keep her warm on these nights. She was a buxom girl of some older years, not quite out of youth's bloom. Alayne was barely in the cusp of womanhood, newly flowered and still growing.

"One…indiscretion," Alayne muttered into her pillow. Randa crowed in delight.

"Don't tell the feathers, you silly goose. Tell me!" The other girl tugged insistently at her bare shoulder. They slept down to their skins beneath the sheets. A loud, drawn-out sigh came from Randa's other side.

"Will you two  _shut it_  or must I climb over and cuff both your ears?" growled Mya Stone. As tough and lean as her customary leathers, she seemed less threatening naked to Alayne. But the chopped, uneven mop of coal black hair made up for her lack of mannish gear.

"Please, Mya. Don't interject with your stories. Ser Lothor's latest advances can wait until next evenfall," Randa shot her other bed companion a wicked grin. Mya lightly thumped the cheeky widow on the teat. Randa returned the blow in kind and burrowed back under the furs.

Outside of this room they obeyed the courtly hierarchy. Bastards came second to the sons and daughters born on the right side of the blanket. Inside their shared bed, they were young women trading secrets and speaking their minds into the cold air. Not to mention the fact that Mya and Randa were reared together here.

The cold nudge from Randa's toes brought out the halting tale of the indiscretion from Alayne. It was the singer Marillion who had first fumbled at her dress and tried to pry her thighs apart with sweet words and wet kisses. A threatening word from Littlefinger's man had sent him skittering off to find a more willing partner in the revelries that followed the nuptials of Lady Lysa and Lord Petyr.

"…and that is the end of it," she finished for the other two. She was sure Mya did not give a fig for girlish tales of lust and love, but the other bastard stirred beneath her furs to prop herself up and get a look at Alayne from over the coverlet.

"No others? No kisses?" asked the other Stone.

"None to speak of," answered Alayne. Sansa Stark had other kisses, but not Alayne.

Sansa Stark's thighs glued themselves together at the sight of her lord husband's stunted legs and thickened member. A clumsy, chaste kiss was all that held true in that arranged folly.

But Sansa Stark had been kissed in the burning light of green wildfire with rough lips. If Alayne closed her eyes tight enough, the light of green would seep into her vision and she could feel the rasp and scratch of a beard. Even tighter and the underlying slickness of burned flesh would slide like a phantom over her cheek.

"Alayne, your face is turning pink. How is it that some girls get the lucky end of the bargain? I look like a fat cheeked apple whenever a blush creeps into  _my_ cheeks," Randa complained good-naturedly.

"Leaver her be, Randa. And for the last time  _shut it_." Mya said it with a firm air of finality,

"Marillion was a fair enough lover. Most bards are," commented Randa to Alayne later on. They had lost Mya to a deep sleep, her soft snores filling the room.

Alayne said nothing, turning herself over onto her side before bidding Randa a goodnight. The young widow meant well, but the so-called pillow tax was brewing up memories best left with the vanished Sansa Stark.

Randa huffed, put out from being denied her wicked pillow tax and ensuing morsels of equally wicked stories.

"Who would think this would be my winter? Wedged between two shut mouthed bastards. One a blushing virgin and the other a by-blow of a king!"

* * *

Sansa Stark had never much liked riding. It mussed her long hair into impossible tangles and drove her to wear roughspun breeches and tunics instead of her pretty gowns.

Alayne Stone lived for it. Sansa Stark had worn silks and soft velvets, but Alayne dressed to fit her station – simple and unobtrusive. Toughened old boots a size too big fit onto her feet – it was always a bother to find good boots. The courser she'd borrowed from the stables was sound enough to bear a more inexperienced rider. A big blood bay, she carried Alayne with an easy grace through the lowlands of the Vale.

Alayne supposed it was the freedom that appealed so much to her. Out here, she was free to think aloud and drop all her guises to simply be. She said as much to the mare as her shod hooves crunched through the thick layer of frosted snow covering the trail. It was oft used by those that frequented the keep, but brooked enough privacy for her needs with its shady sentinel pines flanking the path.

The largest issue was with her father having not an inkling of these daily rides she'd taken up since their arrival at the Gates of the Moon. Alayne feared that he would forbid these daily jaunts out on the trail for the sake of her safety. Or fear more that the secrets she kept might slip easily out just as they went in if she were to be caught and spirited away.

It also gave her a break from the increasing attentions of a sickly little lordling. Robert Arryn, her Sweetrobin, was firmly rooted in his own rooms at the Gates of the Moon. No one would let him even near a window for fear of him catching a chill – anything harsher than a sniffle was a danger to his already fragile state of health.

Alayne did love the boy she had taken under her wing as she might a brother or a child born of her own flesh, but her patience was growing short with his expanding demands. Here she had a harder time barring the door when two other girls shared the same room. At the Eyrie, it was easier to simply order his door locked after dusk to keep him in his room. Now he was back at his old habit. Sneaking from the many exits in his chambers to their door, finally reaching his goal by clambering in with Alayne.

She wouldn't mind so much if the little boy didn't root around for a teat. Once he actually managed to get a mouth clamped around one distended nub, suckling hard until Alayne jolted awake. That had raised some uncomfortable questions from Randa when the other two had woken at her yelp of surprise, but Mya kept tightlipped about the matter. Her years on the mountain no doubt gave her a fair share of servant's gossip to listen at.

"Sweetrobin," she'd coaxed, petting his downy head, "You must sleep enough for the both of us in your own bed so I can rest, or else I won't be able to keep my eyes open for our next story. Come back to your rooms with me." With that she had shrugged on a dressing robe, taking him in hand.

"No!" he'd snapped at her with red-rimmed eyes, sniffling with tears. His hair had grown past his collar – no one could get near him with shears since his mother's death.

It was a known fact that Lysa Arryn had nursed her son well past infancy and into boyhood, claiming that her milk soothed his delicate constitution and gave him strength. No one could slight her for wanting to keep her child alive after so many stillborns and miscarriages. Little protest was raised even when it came time to foster the boy out to help him grow into his role  _away_ from his mother. Lysa had refused any offer. But what her domineering control of her son's life left was a dependent, weakened shell of a boy.

 _Not fit to lord over a garden plot_ , thought Alayne sadly. It was the hard truth. But it was unlikely that Robert would come into his inheritance at this rate – Maester Colemon had confided in her father that the boy might not even live to see spring. His shaking fits were coming every day at irregular intervals. Just the other day Robert had opened up his cheek and gone down in a jerking heap near a table corner. Not even Sweetsleep doses were keeping the fits at bay.

The mare faltered over a rutted patch of frozen mud along the path, bringing Alayne back to the present. Lords and ladies were arriving this night to be feasted – Corbrays, Redforts, Waynwoods, Lynderlys and Royces. Most noticeable absent from the list was one Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone and a relation of the High Steward and Randa. Bronze Yohn refused to sit a table with Lord Baelish.

Her father judged Yohn to be a threat, but he waved off the hostility exhibited by the knight as a load of hot air. More important things were on his mind, Alayne figured.

_Aroooooooooh-ooo!_

The horn call came from further down the path at the road proper, signaling the return of her father from Gulltown. He had waved off her questions and claimed that he was going off for more business. Also hinting at greasing the wheels with Lady Waynwood concerning her ward, Lord Baelish had left his natural daughter with more than a few questions lingering in her mind.

Alayne put her heels to the courser's flanks, easing them into a steady trot towards the walls of the keep and out from the tree line. Her daily peace was at an end.

* * *

_Life isn't a song._

That much held true to the young maid. Life was full of unpleasant surprises.

She dabbed at her tears with the dagged sleeve of her plain brown gown, but ten replaced the one that was wiped away. A clatter of metal startled her.

After a few furtive minutes of glancing around to find no sign of any soul in the empty hall, she sunk back into the alcove and sniffled. Her belly ached; her head hurt twice as fierce, and when she breathed her mouth felt cottony.

He had seemed the most genteel sort on the surface – she had always known it was a farce to hide what lurked beneath. What she didn't expect was the usual fatherly gesture turning into something more…unwelcome.

Petyr Baelish had courted her mother. Or at least attempted. Some great tragedy had played out when her grandfather had declared Brandon Stark betrothed to her mother. Petyr Baelish was packed off to Gulltown soon after.

He had remarked with frequency on how much she took after her mother.

"Alayne?" said a voice from the end of the hall. Drawing herself to her usual straight-backed posture, Alayne stepped from the alcove and out into the light. Mya Stone stood at the other end.

Mya Stone had the bright blue eyes of the Baratheon line. Renly and King Robert both had borne them in life, but now only Robert's bastards carried his looks on past his death. Renly didn't prove as lucky. Mya was rumored to be the first and oldest surviving child of King Robert.

Queen Cersei had seen to the more recent creations before King Robert's death and those that followed. The Stone girl had escaped notice – safely ensconced in the Vale under the protection of Jon Arryn, Cersei could have never touched her.

"Do you need me for something, Mya?" Alayne always remembered her courtesies.

Mya slunk closer with her rangy, long body. She reminded Alayne most of those dark shadowcats you would see winding their ways through the sentinels on the mountains – all whipcord muscle over lean bones.

The other Stone girl padded close enough to glance the tears on her cheeks, Alayne guessed. Next she knew, a silent question was bubbling up between them. Mya cast her eyes this way and that, as if to see the one to blame for Alayne's tears.

"Lifting your skirts for a serving boy? Or is one lifting them for you?" Mya probed, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. It didn't seem accusatory. Alayne still felt sweat pop out on her brow as the fear bubbled up.

"No. Just…worry for Lord Robert."

"So you're still playing your great mummer's farce, eh?" The Vale girl cracked a great grin.

Alayne was strong, she reminded herself. Alayne could not fold under pressure. "Farce?"

"The one where you play the doting, dutiful daughter to Littlefinger. Praying no one will take notice of how you look, or the bottles of dye you try to hide. Things that spur the maids to titter on about. The farce where you play Alayne Stone and hide your Stark blood."

Alayne fancied that she looked like the Tully trout right about now, closing and opening her mouth with not a sound coming out. She squirmed further back into her safe corner, feeling about for the small eating dagger she kept on her belt. Her fingers clenched around the rough horn handle, squeezing for assurance.

She wouldn't be taken back to Cersei.

She wouldn't rot in the black cells like Tyrion had.

She wouldn't be a head on a pike to rot like Septa Mordane.

Or father.

Mya noticed her movements, but instead of going for her own wicked looking knife she held up her hands. "No harm to you, lady."

For the first time in months, Sansa Stark exhaled. A thousand floodgates opened in her mind and the false identity she had shrouded herself in was scrubbed from it.

"I helped your mother up the mountain when she came with the Imp. I never forget a face I help up to the Eyrie." Mya put it bluntly, fixing her with those unblinking eyes. "You take after her strongly, even with your hair like this. I see a good bit of Lady Lysa in you too, before she got fat as a hen."

Sansa kept her mouth shut, too wary to agree or dissent with the bastard. Mya thrust out her chin in a stubborn gesture, fixing her with a hard stare. What came next from her weather-cracked lips was a miracle.

"We're getting out of here. You and I come from the two men that brought down a kingdom. I figure that blood will tell and we can make as great a pair this realm has ever seen since our sires. Littlefinger is playing you like the high fucking harp and you're too meek to step out of his plots and take charge of your own fate.  _Fight_  for it. Know your true friends. Not your false ones that seek to take every scrap of Stark stoicism and make you into something you're bloody well not."

Sansa could only stare as wide-eyed as a sheep from the Fingers, her mouth hinged open. All speech had fled her as the older girl pressed down on her with her words. Mya's chest heaved, the flinty blue of her eyes meeting the guileless blue of Sansa Stark.

"Now I ask you, the last  _true_  Stark of Winterfell, are you going to take this lying like a bitch in the dirt or are you going to fight?"

Sansa drew herself up after a minute spent in dumb silence, fisting a hand in Mya's jerkin to pull the taller girl closer. They were almost of a height. Their eyes met evenly.

"Show me the way."

Mya cracked a self-satisfied grin and grabbed at her wrist without much further ado, yanking her roughly off into a winding series of corridors and yards.

* * *

Mya had her strip down to her skin, redressing her in the thick silk leggings and under-tunic to keep the warmth in before doubling that over with a healthy layer of wool smallclothes. Over that stuffy mess was the roughspun tunic and breeches, then the heavy cloak and too-big boots.

"You'll need it where we're going," Mya had answered decisively after a perturbed look from Sansa.

"Is she ready?" asked a voice through the door, a crack revealing the telltale sliver of fine wool. Randa wedged herself through the door, shutting it firmly behind after Lord Nestor came in after.

Father and daughter regarded her with a critical eye, the man finally breaking away to move over to the table. On it rested an oilcloth bulky with a strange bundle. He handed it off to Mya with not a word spoken.

The rest followed in a blur. Sansa recalled faces in the dark hallway the Royces and the Stone girl led her down, and the bite of winter creeping up under her skirts as she mounted up on her courser with Mya. A shaggy little garron was tied off to the lip of the saddle, arrayed in the strangest sort of shoes Sansa had only seen tacked up on walls as relics.

A wicker weave of leather and wood fanned out beneath each sturdy leg, creating a slow but sure gait over the powdery white dusting the courtyard.

They were used northwards only in the deepest of snows, helping beasts travel easier over dense snow packs and ice. But she was a child of summer. Winter had come and brought back all the relics of the harsh season.

Tense minutes passed as Randa and Lord Nestor tightened, cinched and clapped the last bits of leather onto their mounts. Then another minute spent in agonizing stillness before Randa signaled to the other end of the yard.

Out came Ser Yohn from the shadows of the eaves along with others, as big as life and solemn as grave keepers. They made a quiet huddle around the mounted pair, exchanging a few brief words with Lord Nestor before turning their faces up to Sansa and Mya.

Ser Yohn touched at her knee and then placed his hand on Mya's leg – the gesture seemed almost like a benediction.

"Sell the horse off midway. Walk the rest of the way to the port. Stay off of the main roads; do not meet the eyes of any passerby. Use false names at every turn, even when you get underway on the other side.  _Do not fail_." The last bit was fairly intoned like a prayer, the older man stepping away to make room for their mounts to make for the gate.

There were no goodbyes. Randa gave her and Mya a cheeky wink before disappearing into the anteroom they had come from along with her father. The rest dispersed, hurrying back to wherever they might be missed by the ever vigilant eyes of Lord Petyr.

As soon as they were out of sight of the cheery glow of the inhabited keep, Sansa shook at Mya's shoulder.

"Where?" she asked quietly, too afraid of the muffled sound that had come with the thick blanketing of snow over everything. She flinched as the single word hummed in the air, ricocheting off of every laden branch and hidden rock.

"Going to see the queen," Mya muttered from beneath her scarves.

Sansa had a moment of panic, envisioning the pale beauty of Cersei watching on as Ser Ilyn took off her head before the Great Sept. Mya must have guessed her panic, for she clamped a leathery grip over Sansa's rigid leg.

"The  _other_  queen, Stark."


	2. The Silent Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

Six foot by six.

That was the mantra he recited under his breath after every spade loaded with dirt whirled over his cowl.

The spade flew in an arc before neatly burying itself in the soft turf, the large man following it as he hauled his bulk out of the hole he had made. His arm wasn't what it used to be after so much disuse and idleness during recovery, but he wasn't one for mourning over lost strength. He'd build it back up, brick by brick.

Here in the lichyards he had solitary work with few looking on. The other brothers had only a few words to spare on their allotted days for speaking, and he rarely if ever even spoke during the entire week. He'd barely said five words this month to anyone but the elder brother.

After carefully lowering the light bundles into the grave, he said a silent prayer over them with all the frank sincerity that was his faith to whatever being that lorded over their fates. He dashed a clod of dirt over the canvas sacks, shutting away the memory of bashed in skulls the size of tiny dolls along with the other darker things that lurked in his head.

He went back to ladling dirt and sod over the babes, their mother's corpse next in his queue after he patted down the last patch of grass near the simple stones that marked their bodies.

Grubbing around in the dirt with corpses wasn't where he saw himself when he puzzled over his fate not but a few moons back.

But it was far better than  _being_ the grubby corpse in the dirt.

Flexing his jaw with an audible pop, he speared the dewy grass with the tip of his spade to start on another grave.

Six foot by six.

The elder brother being of the strict doctrine of equal work, equal pay – pay being victuals and a spare straw-stuffed mattress set aside in the dormitories – had set the newcomer to task as soon as the maggots had been scrapped from the raw flesh of his healing leg.

Shelling peas in the kitchens like an old woman. Doing sums with the brother charged with provisioning the island. Ambling along the garden path behind the strapping novices who chucked the uprooted vegetables into the basket he was bidden to tote about. Mending. He swallowed down distaste at the memory.

It was more the frustration at his inability to do more that raised his gorge – he'd be as grateful as a pissing beggar if they shoved needlework in his hands while he was whole and able to do more.

Then came the time when he was hale and healthy enough for the strenuous labor. At the time, when the elder brother took him aside during evening prayers to tell him this, the silent brother had to squelch the impulse to roll his eyes skyward and mouth a silent, thankful prayer to the Seven.

Sodding peas.

The brothers all drew lots for the chores at every dawn after prayers. Even the most senior might draw cesspit duty or hoeing the tough winter soil from dawn 'til dusk.

The silent brother had the ghoulish luck of drawing the most tokens for grave digging. Second to that was usually stable work. The Stranger and him being rightly familiar with one another, the silent brother had few qualms with laying the dead to rest. Mostly it was the bloated, featureless corpses that floated downriver and washed ashore. But on occasion a villager from across the flats was ferried across for burial in a calmer, holy place than their squalid and overflowing lichyards.

At night, when he and the others laid silently down for the short rest before the night's prayer service, he dreamed fitful, nagging dreams. Dreams he'd rather have left on the roadside with the old helm.

But you can't be rid of a mind and its memories as easily as putting aside a grisly dog-head of steel on a squat of stones.

His savior and keeper had preached this much to him during his time spent slung across the saddle. In that time, after the little she-wolf had left him to whatever fate the Seven had in mind for him, he had drifted in and out of lucidity.

The memory of being strapped across Stranger's saddle was a sparse one. Pain took him inwards to himself most of the time, especially when the destrier would fumble over a rut in the road while following the elder brother. Any slight move jarred his leg, never failing to send the silent brother into blissful oblivion.

Seven knew how Stranger had been tempered enough to let the brother come even close enough to touch. But the great brute was as gentle as a lamb up until the brother had gotten back to the isle and hauled the silent brother into the infirmary.

Then he turned back into the whinnying, ill-tempered demon from the Seven Hells that the entire isle came to know him as. The silent brother figured that Stranger found a kinship in the elder brother. The same kinship that had bound him to his master for so many years. It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine, considering all that they had to share in the way of history. The elder brother and he shared far too much in common. So much it drove it all to the point of eeriness.

Westermen. Formerly sworn to Tywin 'He Who Shits Gold and Fucks You Up the Arse' Lannister. Sons of lesser houses. Lesser sons to firstborn brothers.

Armor discarded and identities scrubbed and washed out with the tide to be remade on the isle.

Too wretched, lowborn and poor to win over the maid.

There. Another neat grave dug for the poor wench that had mothered the babes. A bitter prod from his good sense struck his mind for even remembering that certain maid, rebuking his fool memory for even straying into that boggy territory.

It was that silly little bird. Still flitting about the cage that was becoming his mind.

Six foot by six.

* * *

He was filthy from the digging, but an extra hand was needed at the landing. More pilgrims were coming across the flats to be shepherded to the priory.

A mangy mutt from the kitchens loped alongside his awkward, heavy footed stride. He was beginning to get the range of movements during his morning sneaks to a secluded clearing for dearly needed stretching. Still, a week or more of recuperation was needed before he'd be set for proper footwork.

Across the flats gurgling with burrowing clams and quicksand trudged another winding caravan of guided pilgrims. Or Sparrows. Sparrows were worse. They were hungry  _and_ preachy.

The brothers gathered along the shore, ready to lend a hand with the parcels and satchels. One was pointed out to speak for them in the elder brother's stead. The silent brother waited with the rest.

In trudged the group after the complicated dance that was the walk through the sands. A few children, mostly women. Old men and maimed warriors fortunate enough to be walking. The silent brother didn't turn his eyes away from the sight of a man with both arms reduced to wiggling nubs at the elbow. Others did.

A crowd of rare oxen and the even rarer trio of horses passed along the way. Strapped across their saddles were the typical snowshoes of old. Northmen by the look of it. More likely Northwomen after he got a look at the shapely legs pacing evenly with the horses.

Odd.

Few houses kept the Seven in the north. This was a rare pair to be making a pilgrimage if they were raised to worship the sodding trees.

One of the rough dressed, hooded wenches ducked down to tug a strap into place with her horse's tack. A tiny flash of hair caught his eye as it dropped from within the dark innards of the cloth.

A warbling, pissing bard might call it the color of autumn. Gold and red entwined with a heady brown to make the richest hair he'd ever seen on such a head. And a face thinning out into the fine bones of good breeding. Eyes that would shock every lad into a mooning mess, fumbling for the words that would turn their gaze on them. Lips plumping to a dusky rose that had blood rushing to his cock every time he was fool enough to look her way and catch sight of them puckering into a delicate 'oh'.

And then those long fingers drew away to tuck the strand back out of sight.

His steady pulse skipped a beat for the first time in months.


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

"Tell me more," she urged. "I can't be left in the dark like this all the way to Essos!"

"Hush," spat Mya, a fevered look coming into her eyes as Sansa said that little damning word. A scan of the rutted patch of yard around the stable showed there to be no eavesdroppers within earshot.

She turned her stony gaze on Sansa. "You'll lead  _them_  by the nose to us at the speed that mouth of yours hints at what we're getting at."

Sansa had the grace to look abashed.  _Them_ meant Lannisters. Lannisters were not going to rear their heads in their travels if she could help it. She got a grip on her fraying nerves and swallowed her pride. Mya had yet to lead her astray. Good fortune willing it would stay that way.

"Forgive me. I forgot myself. We could speak freely on the road enough, but I was too preoccupied to recall that we're in close company with others now. It won't happen again." Sansa sounded contrite enough, she hopped.

It worked. Mya seemed to synch into her change of attitude on cue, turning with both horses in hand to the high doors of the isle's stables. Inside a rush of warm hay and pungent horse sweat wrapped all of them in a familiar blanket of comforting smell. Tensions declined, and Sansa was able to ease her breath into shallow, even inhales.

All of that was shot to pieces after she got a look at what lay beyond.

"Seven hells," she swore abruptly and with more than a tad bit of volume to it. Mya almost jumped out of her boots, spooking both the coursers into a nervous prance backwards. They had almost hauled her out into the yard before she had mastered control over the panicky animals.

"For the sake of the bleeding cunt of the maid. What is it now,  _Stone_?" Mya came up behind her, hissing emphatically on the surname to keep her aware of the charade at play.

Sansa was almost too dumbfounded to keep it up.

There in a loose box down the way stood one of the largest destriers ever imagined in her tales, thick necked and a shade of black that would make the dark night pea green with envy. His cocksure posture was familiar even from this distance.

Sansa grabbed at Mya, shaking her by the shoulder before setting to the horses. Deft fingers toughened by weeks on the highroads went through the routine of unsaddling as the dumbfounded Mya looked on.

"Well?" she asked. Her gaze went from Sansa to Stranger, then Stranger to Sansa.

"Hush," Sansa replied. That irked Mya terribly if Sansa was to gauge her temper by the irate growl rising from the throat of the Stone girl, but she none the less set to her own mount with just as much vigor as her.

Sansa could keep her little secrets just as well as Mya.

_Turnabout being fair play and all._

No imminent danger was at hand. Stranger's master was as alienated from the Lannisters as she was after he fled the Blackwater in fear. Experience dictated that he was all bark and little bite around her, at least. She was mildly tolerable. If she sought him out, it'd be in plain sight of others and somewhere public enough to dissuade him from using his earlier tactics. Sansa was weary of daggers at her throat, both literally and figuratively.

The cool kiss of his steel on her throat was well remembered.

And the memory of it still sent a dangerous thrill racing up her spine that she didn't dare begin to contemplate.

But more to the point, Stranger's appearance was more than coincidence. Of that she was sure. It was a sign of the fates entwining all men into one, weaving them into the inexplicably complex pattern that was life. The cranky horse was an omen of good fortune.

And his master was never far afield from him.

Sansa hid her smile in the thick coat of her mare.

* * *

It was decided earlier between the two that they would join with their contact on the isle after a hot meal. Business could wait – they hadn't sat down to dine on a cooked, decent meal since the Vale.

Sansa fairly inhaled her stew, sopping up the rich chunks of carrots and savory beef with a bit of crusty bread. Her trencher was a tad bit stale to her taste, but she methodically broke off a bit of the saturated bread as Mya spoke in low tones across the table.

"Good weather, at least. Tide should be out for a few days more 'til the moon turns it inward," she explained thickly with her mouth half full.

"And then it comes?" Sansa asked in guarded tones, swallowing down another slice of the trencher tenderized by the stew.

"It comes."

_It being the cog._

The cog that would sail them across the Narrow Sea towards the continent. Towards whatever fate that awaited them. Mya was vague as ever on the specifics, but Sansa had enough schooling under her belt to know that the Free Cities were their next targets in the long journey towards Slaver's Bay.

They had overshot Gulltown about midway through the Vale. Mya had gotten skittish over Lord Petyr's connections there and opted for a different route. Sansa could do nothing but agree wholeheartedly. It would put them a tidy few days behind schedule. The safer outcome was worth the price of some saddle sores and empty bellies.

Mya had added that this was their best bet. To stay off the beaten path, get further into the interior and use a less traveled port. Lord Yohn had anticipated the need for a fallback plan. Old soldiers were dependable like that. The cog slated to take them on as passengers in Gulltown was to swing into the Bay of Crabs towards the Quiet Isle if they didn't show within the fortnight. Mya would compensate them for their trouble with the allotment Ser Yohn had doled out to her. All according to plan.

A helpful friend of their cause remained on the island, if Ser Yohn and Mya's word was to be trusted. A friend that would shelter them until the waters were deep enough for the ship to sail the flats.

A soggy bit of break struck Sansa's face, startling her out of her thoughts enough to force a small noise of surprise out. Mya grinned cattily, waving the stiff slice of trencher bread before taking a chunk out of it with a savage tear.

"It's a wonder your teeth don't come out," Sansa muttered with a look of amazement.

"Practice makes perfect. Dig in and be grateful that it's only a few days old."

She did as she was bid, tearing into it with her blessedly healthy, strong teeth with little complaint. As she chewed through the bread, she took a turn around the room with her eyes. It was packed wall to wall with hooded brothers and dusty pilgrims. A respectable amount of noise was raised from the pilgrims to create a low hum in the hall, but every brother kept his silence save for the occasional slurp or crunch that accompanied their dining.

_There._

A brother that did more than fill out his ratty cassock with his impressive height and breadth entered the hall with a group of his fellows. The sight of him made her draw up her spine, peering over a few heads to get a better look. His cowl was slung low over his face, but Sansa knew well enough what face lay beneath the roughspun. Her own hood and scarves did their job, but simply the sight of a familiar body was enough to make her wary of just how careful she had to be even with the guise.

Then his head turned toward the end of the table she and Mya had claimed before stopping in that ponderous search after he fully faced her. The glint of a dark eye peered accusingly at her.

It dawned on her that all these silly layers were useless – he had her spotted long before she knew he was on this spit of land. Hounds could sniff out any farce.


	4. The Silent Brother II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

The Hermit's Hole was a safe haven for all. A hollowed hill that had been around for more than a few millennia, it served as the residence for the elder brother on the isle. The Silent Brother sought the refuge after catching sight of  _her_  in the hall.

He stormed up the path, cursing under his breath as all the roiling turmoil he had sought to put out of his mind came to a hot boil.

Those deep eyes had locked with his for a long moment until he had turned away, shame and anger burning in his face as he shoved his way through the press of bodies. His feet took him on the familiar path towards the hollowed hill.

The elder brother, a lantern jawed man well into two score years of life, was the confessor sort. Others came to him to impart their words and hear him speak a piece on it. Being laden with much to confess, the Silent Brother found himself here often.

The routine visit began with the knock, then the gruff exchange of pleasantries. They sat usually by the fire with honeyed mead bottled and brewed from the hives the isle kept. Soon, the halting speech would flow from the liquor loosened tongue of the Silent Brother as it did on this troubling night.

"Was about the time Gregor was training under some other Lannister bannerman as a squire. About to do his vigil, if my memory isn't a piss poor reminder.

She was off in the gardens – always kept out of the way after he sacked up and tossed her kittens into the stream. Said they made too much noise for him to stand. I was off by that time…serving at the Rock. Old man was long buried after his cross with Gregor.

Awfully strange how many hunting accidents crop up when Gregor was 'round. Then it got worse.

First it was little accidents. Stable lads turning up to the Maester for teeth pulling after someone had socked and shattered the front ones from a hit. They all swore up and down to the Seven it was simple squabbling amongst them, and then they'd go and nearly piss their breeches when  _Ser_  Gregor showed up at the gates.

It didn't take long for the bodies to start turning up. First they found was some washerwoman from the village rotting in a wayside ditch. Cunt all bloodied and the tongue tore out from the root.

Then Myriah had to go and raise a fuss at him about the woman. Should've known better.

She couldn't eat proper for a month after he cracked her one on the jaw for speaking out of turn. Didn't even bother to take off the gauntlet.

Most of the keep tried to toughen her up. Nurture her. Hide her. Smuggle her out. Anything. They had a soft spot for her. Never was a day when she wouldn't stick her neck out for one of them or give them a kind word.

The Maester tried to send out a raven to the Rock. Try and reach either me or the one holding Gregor's leash. Lord Tywin's ear wasn't so deaf when it came to bad tidings for his reputation back then. Even he had a sense of propriety – gentle bred knights don't break their sister's bones.

It never quite got there. The Maester ended up down the well with a quill stuck through each eye and his chain choking him dead.

The last that tried to sneak 'Riah out had the worst of it all. Was a sweet scullery maid that had been brought up with us. Polliver and that freakish Tickler were banded up with Gregor by that time. Calm as the dawn they brought her squealing up to the lord's chamber, my old nurse said to me when I got back too late to do any good. Gregor had her every which way known to man in front of 'Riah while Polliver and the other…"

He paused, a hand shaking on the cup in hand 'til the mead slopped out over the sides. A crack sounded as the earthenware jug ground itself into pieces between his hands, cutting into the flesh to make a small trickle of blood mingle with the warm puddle of gold spreading on the hearth. The elder brother watched with a guarded expression. The Silent Brother drew a breath.

"Then Gregor showed 'Riah with the scullery maid just how many holes a hot poker can fit into. She didn't last long – Gregor had enough of her screaming and had her tongue out like he did the washerwoman. 'Riah couldn't take the sight of it. She saw the glass and the window and…just…found her own way out of it all."

A long silence filled the hollow hill. Odd shadows leaped from the pools of darkness gathered behind the carved driftwood of the tables and shelves.

The elder brother righted himself with a groan, striding over to pour a stiff shot of some murky brown liquid before handing it off to the Silent Brother.

"Down that. You need a stronger cure than mead for what ails you," he said as he spread his weight back down in the driftwood chair, gazing thoughtfully into the flames.

The Silent Brother downed the heady stuff, blinking back tears as the spicy fire hit the back of his throat. It'd been ages since he'd been properly foxed, let alone woozy as a maid on her wedding night from drink. He was getting there at this rate.

"I figure the guilt of that has been eating you up for years, brother. Didn't do much help when you killed the pair that dishonored your sister, did it?" The elder fixed the younger man with a knowing look. The Silent Brother thought over it.

"Not as much as I figured it would. It did me good to see them choking out their last on some grubby floor of an inn. The little she-wolf had the Tickler – she did her house proud with how hard she savaged him. I nearly pissed myself laughing at his expression when he had this little slip of a chit ramming him with a blade.

"How'd you feel when the word got to us about Ser Gregor's death at the hands of the Dornishman? They say he suffered long and hard. Took  _weeks_  for the poison to claim him. More agony for any one man to handle in a thousand lifetimes."

The Silent Brother exhaled. He didn't quite know how he felt about his brother's death even now. When he first heard the tale, an inkling of doubt crept in. But the more people that poured in to the isle speaking of the demise of the Mountain That Rode, the more that doubt dissipated. All that was left was a sour feeling of failure and his constant companion – self-loathing.

"So, what's brought all this on, brother?" asked the elder brother after a pregnant pause.

The Silent Brother cracked his mouth to say something, but apprehension held his tongue. He found the words after a moment.

"A familiar face. A woman I knew in King's Landing came ashore today with the others."

The elder brother blinked and a slow smile formed as he soaked in those words.

"Already? They're a few days earlier than I expected."

The Silent Brother rose to his feet, his hands clenching reflexively for a blade that wasn't to be found at his waist. Rage bubbled up. Deceit wasn't an endearing trait in the man he confided in. An entreating look from the elder gave him pause.

"You knew this? Fuck your mumblings and tell me what this is all about," the Silent Brother growled.

"Hear me out and lay off your anger. There's more to this than you know, but I'll let you in on a secret that's been brewing in this realm since word from the east reached the Kingdoms. Get your wits about you, man. The ladies will be here in a candle mark or two."


	5. Sansa II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

One thing her lady mother had always taught her was to never go sticking her nose in business that didn't concern her.

"…be here in a candle mark or two." That was the voice of the other man. She had excused herself from the table after she saw the Hound turn on his heel and head out of the hall. Words were needed from him. Explanations she needed to give. Promises and offers that needed reconsidering in light of recent happenings. It wasn't a stretch to find her way up the worn path and retrace his large steps in the soft earth.

Most of all, she simply wanted to speak.

Now here she was, pressed desperately to the heavy door of the hollowed hill to hear the roughened sound of his voice leaking through the notches and cracks.

Her fingertips felt numb. The more she pressed them into the rough splinters of the door, the less she felt them digging into her skin.

_She saw the glass and the window and just…_

"Found her own way out of it all," she murmured to the wind.

"You'll need more than one way out of it all after I get a hold of you, Stark."

Sansa nearly jumped out of her own skin as the voice growled right by her ear. An irate Mya had snuck up on her and Sansa was none the wiser. The girl practically had the stealth and eyesight of a shadowcat. Not to mention the temper when provoked.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling any more noise from issuing out of her angry senior. Mya gave her a look from over her hand that could peel paper from walls and strike men dead in their steps.

A groan of wood sounded as the door they were leaning against shifted suddenly. Next she knew Mya was tangled in her legs and they were upended on a woven rug in a warm, cavernous room.

"Forgetting your courtesies, girl. Didn't your mother teach you to know eavesdropping as rude?" the Hound muttered from above, his face bare and exposed to the ruddy light of the fire. A familiar twist of scarred, burned tissue brought a slight pang to her heart. It was like catching sight of an old friend rather than a former captor. Here she was, lying on an earthen floor tangled up in a bastard and she was mooning like a silly thing over him.

_Mooning?_

She'd ruminate over this mess later. For now, the top priority was untangling the skein of her legs from Mya's. They had hauled themselves up and dusted off to a reasonable degree of tidiness before Mya swerved her body towards the approaching elder brother.

The Vale girl made a terse motion with her hands, indicating a word was needed with the brother out of earshot of the other pair. He smile politely at Sansa, turning his attention to Mya before she hauled him out by the front of his robes into the night air. A heavy thud followed their abrupt exit as the door shook the frame harder than an irate husband thrashing a lazy wife.

" _HE_  WASN'T MENTIONED WHEN YOUR LAST BLOODY RAVEN CAME IN!" roared Mya's voice from outside the firmly shut door.

"Come by the fire, girl." The Hound didn't give her much choice – he had her by the arm and forcibly moved her away from the racket outside the door to the chairs. Her skin burned like wildfire where the heat of his hand seeped through the fabric of her tunic.

She took her seat, primly folding herself into the huge chair with her ankles tucked around each other like a proper lady. Her eyes were down, fixed on the scuffed tips of his boots as he remained upright. A creak of wood groaned under his hands as he clasped his fingers to the mantle of the hearth, his body turned towards the fire – all at a comfortable distance from any stray embers that might pop onto his robes, she noted.

The Hound never took his eyes away from the flickering dance of the flames as he spoke. "Figured it to be you. What's brought the Lady  _Lannister_  to this tiny spit of sand?"

She flinched at the surname. But she gathered up her wits and her dignity and replied with all the bite she could muster. "Desperation – and a small game of chance, my  _lord_."

That coaxed a harsh laugh from him. "Lord. My lord. Still haven't given up on your sense of propriety, little bird? Do us all a favor and come off your high horse."

"By your leave then, _Ser_ Clegane," she gritted out. That earned her a look that brooked no argument. She crossed a line when that little word was put to use.

"I'm sorry," she said after a quick moment of squirming guilt in her gut.

"Watch your words, girl. I've yet to lay a hand on you, but when your mouth wanders off in a direction you know better than most to venture to, I won't have a qualm about shutting it."

Sansa worked her mouth, but she couldn't find words to retort with. He never failed to leave her speechless. A tactful change of conversation was her second course of action in any situation, so she fell back on that for the battle plan.

"How'd you come to be here?"

"You've your sister to thank for that."

"Arya?" she said dumbly, her jaw slackening. A feeling of elation rose in her gut. Her stupidly wonderful, dirty, boyish sibling – it was a miracle from the Mother herself. "She's here?" Her body rose of its own volition, but the hand the Hound raised at her gave her pause and sent her heart plummeting.

She couldn't stop her hand from touching his shoulder as much as she could stop her heart from beating. Fingers clutched and clawed like a feeble set of talons at his robe, hysteria creeping into her tone. "What's happened? Tell me. I beg you," she choked out.

His body shrunk from her clutch as if her touch offended.

"Calm yourself, girl. I'd stake my arm that your sister is more than alive wherever she's run off to." The assurance from him gave her an odd amount of relief, but doubts still lingered.

"What of bandits? Lannister scouts?"

"She'll live. But she's none the less foolish for running off like that. I'd have had her safely ransomed off to your mother's family if it weren't for those bloody Freys."

Sansa flinched. Her mother's pale body being sluiced into the river like refuse from a chamber pot still brought a sting of tears to her eyes. Robb and Greywind's unnamable fate brought on too many night terrors for her to number.

She turned her mind from that dark corner and thought of the possibilities for Arya. Lysa was dead. News had come to the Vale that the Blackfish had slithered out of the siege like a wily trout from a fisherman's net. Sansa was grateful for small blessings and the good fortune of her great-uncle, but now Arya was left with not a soul to turn to. Every Stark or Tully was either rotting in an early grave, held captive, or completely incognito. Every house in the North was a shaky bet on both safety and loyalty.

Except...

 _Jon_ , she thought. _She'll go to Jon._ _The Wall._

"To be truthful, I'd be more concerned for the bandits," the Hound said offhandedly. A pointed look at the hand clutched to his robes and she remembered herself. Stepping away to give him a respectable amount of distance, she stared into the fire alongside him.

"It's no qualm worth wringing your hands over, girl. She's bound to not stay in one place for too long. Best chance for you to find her is for to sit fast and wait for her to come 'round."

She read into the meaning of his words. Reclaim Winterfell and Arya would find her way back. It could be months. Years until that happened. Seven hells, it might never happen. But the chance was there – Arya would come home.

Wringing her hands, she folded them busily before raking her nails down her cheeks in frustration. Arya was alive. Thriving, if these tidings were true. And she couldn't do a thing to find her in this muddled mess called a kingdom.

 _Put all of this from your mind and focus on the task at hand_ , the sensible part of her mind said matter-of-factly.

"Where was she last?" she forced her hands onto the mantle, brave enough to raise her eyes and meet his gaze sidelong. Bitter sympathy was all that she found looking back at her.

"Heading on the road out towards the coast, last I saw. Took the horse. Took a good bit. Had that nasty little blade on her."

Sansa laughed for the first time in what felt like ages, her sides aching after a minute of heaving, ungracious braying. Needlework. Arya was dedicated to her needlework. "Then it is Arya."

The Hound gave her an odd look, his stormy eyes coasting over her face before he turned them towards the door. Mya and the elder brother picked that moment to bang into the hollow hill, the Vale girl five shades of an angry red and the brother serene in temperament and expression.

"A lovely reunion for all," the elder brother said, "but now down to business. Or are you both too intent on catching up?"


	6. The Hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

The chair was harder than granite under his arse. A shift from one side to the other didn't relieve the ache – but they were bound to be adjourning soon enough. All of them had retired to the table to talk. No detail was given as to the next rallying point, but the journey was set out before them.

"We'll make for Meereen," the elder brother punctuated his words by tapping on the tiny dot of Meereen. They had hauled down the latest charts from the shelves, spreading it across the scuffed table for all to see. It was an impressive rendering – only ten years old if the date was to be trusted.

"How many leagues?" asked the little bird, looking to the elder brother after trailing her own route along the map.

"No telling. We're to keep the plan as inconsistent as possible to throw off any who may follow. It's too much of a risk to sail all the way – only a fool would risk winter gales on the open seas and a pass near the Smoking Sea all in one go. Dropping off in one of the Free Cities and riding for Volantis to make sail might work – a fresh crew and a shorter voyage might help to make the passing near Valyria bearable.

Our ideal route is to ride – we'll have decent horses provided once we make landfall in Essos. It's a long while away to Meereen on foot than it is on sea, but we limit the dangers."

The elder brother stared pointedly at him. Both of them may be a bit crippled, out of practice, and older to boot, but they could hold their own defending the four on land better than they could on sea.

"How long is this pleasure ride going to last?" he asked, drawing all eyes in the room to him.

"Even more obscure. At the shortest…two months."

That sent up a groan from the girls, the little bird dropping her head into her hands in frustration. He simply set his mouth into a firm line.

* * *

A rustle was heard from the Vale wench after a time was spent debating over the route and she set out a parcel onto the table. Until then, it had been abandoned by the door after she had finished her chat with the elder brother about his unexpected guest.

A secret smile was shared between the two co-conspirators as she set down the package, the elder brother reaching for the twine binding the package together.

"Oh!" exclaimed the little bird, recognition sparking in her eyes. "That's the package Lord Nestor sent along."

"We'll come bearing gifts," said the elder brother. With a flourish, he rolled out the oilcloth to reveal what lay beneath.

He heard the little bird take in a breath. Even he felt a stab of surprise at the sight. Back in better days, the Maester and his old nurse would tell tales of the fabled blades of House Targaryen.

But it was a thing of beauty to behold one in person.

It was a longsword – but abnormally slender to the trained eye. The blade was ornamented in such a fashion that it wouldn't look out of place as a ceremonial sword of a monarch.

The crossguard was wrought like a ribbon of golden flame, a ruby as fat as a hen's egg perched in the center as a well-oiled wrap of fine leather spanned the length of the grip. A spout of flame in sharp gold like the tail of a tiny comet formed the unique pommel.

Dark ripples marked the steel where it had been folded in on itself hundreds of times.

_Nothing holds an edge like a Valyrian._

And above all, it was shaped and sized for a woman.

"Dark Sister," the little bird murmured, her eyes brimming with wonderment.

"Visenya's blade?" the Vale wench asked no one in particular, a hand hovering before she gathered up the gall to touch the tip of the blade. The simple, feathery touch to the keen tip split the flesh instantly, blood welling over the sword to slither onto the ridge that marked the crux of the blade's more deadly half. To her credit she didn't cry, but she swore up a storm and furiously sucked at the finger to clot the wound.

"How ever did you get it?" asked the little bird. The Vale wench gave a vague shrug in reply.

"Ser Yohn handed it off to Lord Nestor before we left. Nestor gave it to us for safe keeping. Gave explicit warning to not even think about opening it up until we were either here or safe in the Free Cities."

"No direction on what to  _do_ with it?" he asked bluntly. A testing grip on the blade told him that it wouldn't serve him as well as plain castle forged steel at a size more suited to his hands – this one either needed a smaller man or a woman's hands.

Both he and the elder didn't fall anywhere into the category of small in any respect.

But he knew damn well the little bird couldn't take to Valyrian steel – it would call for years of training before she could properly use it. The Vale wench looked like she'd been around a blade or two, but it  _was_ Valyrian steel.

So it was bound for the Targaryen wench's hands.

The longbow that hid under the blade was also a treat to his eyes. The dark wood was supple and unbent. A few coils of tight cord were wound around the body, but no quiver or quarrel of arrows was to be found in the parcel.

A high stack of faded parchment held together by a thong of leather was fished out from beneath the two artifacts and set aside, a brief inspection of the collection revealing an archaic text scrawled in a spidery, jagged hand across the cover page.

"We'll save this all for the morning," said the elder brother. The rest nodded in agreement, rubbing sleep from their eyes as the hours melted by on the candle clock.

"There's a small contribution I'd like to make on behalf of the isle," said the elder brother after the girls had marveled over the blade for the final time. "We've had the last finally wash up ashore a few weeks back, but it was fortune that it managed to even get here. The queen can do as she likes with them, but I believe she'll appreciate the gesture all the same."

He drew a driftwood lockbox from the shelves along the hill's earthen walls, bringing it over to rest alongside the parcel of priceless relics. He opened the carved box, peeling back the layers of velvet to show them what rested beneath.

"Holy Father," breathed the Vale wench at the sight. There, snugly nestled in the black cloth, was the essence of molten fire. Rubies – finely cut into slender shards of unsurpassable quality. Rhaegar's rubies.

Seven to be exact.

A better omen would have to deliberately come up and bite them all on the arse.

* * *

They broke off at midnight for rest. The isle woke early for chores – both he and the elder brother would be needed at daybreak for prayers.

But within the week, that would all end. Once more, the Hound would don his armor. Stranger would be saddled and barded in his old colors. A ship would come to sail them across to Pentos to await a fate only the gods could call at this point.

The little bird fluttered about, making her space in the small alcove of the hill alongside the Vale wench's straw stuffed pallet. It was decided that they'd sleep in the Hermit's Hole along with the elder brother. The safest bet, it would keep them out of sight until the time came. No chances could be taken.

The elder brother had retreated behind his curtained alcove on the far end of the hill. Snoring could be heard from the Vale wench's spot where she slept. It seemed the little bird shared a tolerance for late hours like he did.

Just as he was folding his aching backside out of the chair at the table, she drifted over to inspect the queen's tribute for the umpteenth time.

Her clothes had been shed for a long lawn shirt that dropped past her knees, and it was the first time he'd ever seen her so unclothed since that day in the courtyard when Joff had her stripped to her waist. That sight was unpleasant to look upon – it was just a guileless girl being violated for the brat's own amusement.

But here was a woman grown. Her face had thinned out from all the plumpness of youth and she'd grown more than a few inches during their time apart. The hair had been visibly dyed, but the dull mud brown was fading to the glory of auburn.

All her curves had swelled and fleshed out on her frame as well, he noticed. It was an especially fair view when she modestly ducked around a chair to hide from his sight, facing the fire. The warm glow bled through the thin material of the garment, giving his greedy eyes a peek of her hips. They were made for a man's hands, perfectly turned and softly rounded into a trim waist.

He forced himself to turn halfway for the door. Much more and he'd be sweating and swearing in the privy with his breeches around his knees. As much as it shamed him to think of her pretty mouth and dainty tongue while he brought himself off, the satisfaction that coiled in his belly after he had spilt himself was worth all the shame in the world.

A thud of blood in his loins after she made a little noise after a good stretch told him that fate was going to be unavoidable this night.

"Something caught your eye, girl?" he rasped out when she paused by the table. Surprisingly, it wasn't the fabled blade or the anonymous bow she was fondling. Her fingers were poised over the ratty manuscript that had been bound up with the two. The sigils and characters on the cover were faded and old, but he recognized them for what they truly were.

_High Valyrian._

He could only read scraps of the words – his tutoring in language was sparse. Only the highest echelons of the nobility had their young versed in High Valyrian. What he had picked up was from standing sentinel while Joff dozed off during his lessons. And that was practically a lifetime ago.

Old Yohn was a clever old man, though. He had the foresight to send a highborn along with the Vale wench who could read the dead language of Old Valyria. Her fingers skimmed the line on the front of the manuscript, mouthing the word.

_Dragon._ __

A lingering look at the little bird and he was convinced that this plan ran deeper than simply making a delivery to some up jumped Targaryen chit halfway across the world.


	7. Sansa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

She couldn't sleep. Not now. Not when there was so much to be done.

A creeping sense of shame stole up on her after she stumbled over yet another line of the text set out before her. Maester Luwin had been a harsh task maker in her lessons, though. And she was the fool for slacking in her studies back home. But news from the south had arrived and her dreary days of playing the contrite student in the Library Tower had come to an end. She begged leave from her studies to feast and romp and gossip like a silly thing.

The only times she thought she'd ever need the language had been when Joffrey was her intended and dreams of being Queen Sansa filled her head. Maybe she'd need it for light reading or to set herself aside as a learned queen, a well-rounded queen. There was no rush – she'd resume her lessons in the south with an even greater maester than silly old Maester Luwin.

It was foolish of her to think so.

A king's ransom she'd give to go back to that time and listen to the bald old man drone on about consonants and conjugations in High Valyrian. She'd very well cut off her own hand for a simple list of the vernacular with translations from this long dead language.

Now the biggest obstacle between her and a promise of home was this stupid, silly language. Irony tasted foul when it was  _this_ strong.

She thumbed a page, musing over the titles present on the shelves of the Hermit's Hole. A tattered copy of  _Lives of the High Septons_  caught her eye. The title was pedestrian enough to not attract much notice and the size was about right, so she took it from between its fellows. Dust billowed up after she blew on the cover – it seemed this was a rarely used copy compared to other tomes that littered the hollowed hill. The elder brother wouldn't miss it, fortune willing. It was rude of her as a guest to go about butchering valuable books belonging to her host, but desperate time called for desperate measures.

A hard yank brought the leaves out of their shabby binding. The text was done in a form of Low Valyrian for foreign readers interested in the topic of religious potentates in Westeros – Myrish, possibly the Norvosi dialect. No one had gotten a look at the original High Valyrian work she was about to secret away. They'd just assume that this was some symbolic message from Ser Yohn about keeping the faith on their long journey, or some other waxing and waning drivel like that.

A furtive look around proved that neither Mya nor the brother had stirred from slumber to see what she was up to.

With great care, she placed the manuscript in the leather jacket of  _Lives of the High Septons_ , making a mental note of it all to find some sort of adhesive. In place of the original gift she secreted the leaves of the book, praying to the Seven above that no one would catch on to her trick.

She settled back down, flicking open the book and affecting a look of boredom.

_Dracarys valar – intera Rhaeg imperva._

They were instructions. A codex. A grimoire.

Instructions of performing something so inconceivable she had a hard time swallowing it all.

No legend or fable spoke of this. No bard ever penned a verse concerning this work of words.

The blade and rubies weren't tribute. They were her payment loaned by those that had faith in her. The Royces held the faith that she would choose wisely and exchange the relics for something greater.

Rumors always had a grain of truth to him. Where there was smoke, there was fire. And from the frequency of consistent tales pouring out of sailors coming out of Slaver's Bay, there was a Targaryen queen rising in power.

And in her possession were her trump cards – beings that could make or break wars.

Sansa would reclaim the north with no vast mercenary company. No bargains could be struck up with foreign sovereigns to aid her cause when she had no influence. The ten golden dragons she had to her name would not pay their hefty fee.

The only guarantee she had of reclaiming the North was set before her in these words.

For one thing was certain – dragonfire would thaw the cold grip of anyone foolish enough to grab up what belonged to a true Stark.


	8. Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

Dawn was just making its prompt appearance on the eastern horizon, sleepy fingers of light stretching over the dull waters of the flats.

The isle was rising. Chickens clucked busily in their hutches. Horses stirred in the stables. Even the trees seemed to rustle to life from a long night of stillness.

Sandor was already up and off his pallet by the time most were just stirring for dawn prayers. Accustomed to rising early in the false dawn when all was muted and grey, he had never quite gotten out of the habit.

If rising was a pleasure, kneeling was a pain. Prayers were moreover a personal experience during the dawn session – you came, you kneeled, you got on your way to draw your lot and get to work.

He threw up a quick prayer to the Warrior. Never let it be said he wasn't sincere with his gods now. But he did find them a pain when they dealt him play cards like the set he had now. How'd he and the others manage this journey without the certainty of death or maiming inevitable?

It was Essos. Strange sicknesses, wild beasts roaming the interior – inclusive of the Dothraki hordes that rode shrieking bare-arsed – and more than a fair share of slavers just waiting for an easy prize.

For good measure, he sent up a prayer to the Stranger.

 _Not this time_ , he thought.  _You lot didn't keep me breathing simply to have me go and rot in some grass patch on the continent, did you?_

No reply was given after he thoroughly badgered the wooden figures standing sentinel at the seven-pointed altar above.

With a snort, he hauled his aching knees off the flagstones and limped out of the sept, passing by a few latecomers for prayers. He'd break his fast after the sun had reasonably got up and over the horizon. His visit to the kitchens for the drawing of lots proved lucky. The little talisman with the wheel etched deep into the wood came into his hand after rummaging around in the pot under the watchful eye of a senior brother – stable duty for him this morning.

He kept his head down and his hands tightly tucked into the vast sleeves of his cassock. The ground was honestly more interesting than the blank stares of the brothers and the silent nods they'd give him as they passed along the rutted path to the stables. He sucked in gulps of air after he had passed into the warm cavern that was the long barn. Motes of dust and the scent of clean hay filled his body. The island kept very few horses – only a lone plowhorse for planting and a shaggy little garron for riding, provided it was an emergency and a brother had to get to a town abroad. Then there was the odd horse a pilgrim might bring along. That was rare in this day and age – most horses were snatched up from both smallfolk and nobility alike for the wars, whether by royal edict or thieving. He didn't distinguish the two as different, really.

The three the girls had brought in were respectable specimens of horseflesh – leggy with dainty heads and a thick winter coat in place save for the squat garron that had been the packhorse.

He got to grooming them first off as a courtesy, then spent a half-hour prying a looked over stone that had set into the frog of the plowhorse's hoof.

 _Lazy boy_ , he thought venomously of the novice that had drawn stable duty yesterday. Already a pungent scent of rot and infection had permeated his nose after he pulled the stone free. It would need a poultice – or at the very least a good soak in some salt water to kill the bad fevers in the blood. Luckily the beast was a docile animal. It didn't let out a wicker of complaint after he set the infected leg into a tall pail of warm, salted water from the kitchens.

"Half an hour or so should do it," he said to the animal, giving it a good-natured tap on the rump. The rest followed in a blur until he had worked his way down to Stranger's loose box.

"Here, old man." Stranger shot his head over the wall of his stall, whinnying loud enough to wake the remainder of the island. Sandor chuckled, skimming a hand over his companion's velveteen mouth. The destrier lipped the proffered fingers, much more obliged to lick the salt off of them than chomp them off at the root like he'd done others stupid enough to try and put a hand on him.

"Rotten beast," Sandor muttered, tugging away his slobber coated fingers to edge his way through the door of the stall. Stranger rumbled over in the roomy stall, big enough to house the massive destrier comfortably. He watched as Sandor pitched over soiled straw into the wheelbarrow, seeming to lose interest as that one leggy mare the little bird had rode in on whickered in a polite greeting to Stranger.

"Don't you start," his master warned the amorous stallion. But the beast was already flicking his tail like a glossy pendulum, his ears pricking forward and nostrils flaring to the smell of the mare's scent. The mare looked quite interested herself.

Sandor rolled his eyes skyward, fisting a handful of hay before scrubbing down Stranger's shaggy wintering coat. The stallion, to his credit, didn't go knocking through the stall wall like the last time a receptive mare came to the isle's stable. He figured it was the harsh tongue lashing he'd given to him after he found the big beast standing sheepishly with the mare in her box.

Obviously his presence wasn't required any longer in the stable, so he bound up the plowhorse's lame hoof and tidied up. He'd check back at dusk for the evening feeding for more mucking – hopefully the old plowhorse's hoof would have drained out most of the infectious fluids.

He found himself on the winding path to the Hermit's Hole, taking in the fresh air of the morning. The door was left unbarred – the elder brother was an early riser and was no doubt attending to his own duties at the monastery.

Quiet as a cat, he slipped into the darkened cavern of the hill. His sight adjusted, and he caught sight of the Vale wench keeping a watchful eye on him from her place by the banked fire in the hearth. The wiry girl was methodically stripping the skin off an apple, one eye fixed on him as he treaded closer.

He'd often been privy to Cersei's rants over Robert's bastards. She was as wary of the lowborn spawn of Robert Baratheon as she was over the higher born babes originating from his fornications outside the marriage bed. Anything that threatened her brats and their claim to the throne had her on her toes.

Mya Stone was rumored to be the first and eldest of all the baseborn Baratheons, gotten on some lowborn Vale maid during his time as Jon Arryn's ward. She was forgotten as soon as he left the follies of youth behind, but Cersei kept her in mind. Robert could legitimize anyone he saw fit, and the Stone girl was his eldest.

But her fear had been for naught. Mya Stone was forgotten as soon as Robert passed on, rotting in his kingly chambers with his kingly guts out in the air.

And now, here she was. Crunching loudly on a piece of pared apple and eyeing the wheel of cheese and heel of bread brought up undoubtedly by the elder brother for their breakfast.

"Where's she?" he asked tersely. The Stone girl gave him a bored look, pointing with her knife to the shadows of the table over her shoulder.

"Fell asleep with her nose in that book," she muttered, shifting in her seat to favor a look at the fire. He figured that was his cue to move away, so he went over to where the little bird slept on. Someone had draped a thick throw of furs over her shoulders, but her slim feet were bare and pressed to the earthen floor of the hill. He debated for a moment, but he mastered his doubts and managed to get an arm under her thighs and another under her shoulders as soon as he hoisted her up. She dangled in his arms, firmly rooted in sleep. Her eyes moved a bit under the lids, but she only stirred sleepily and fell right back into a limp posture. She weighed next to nothing, but her long legs were a bit of an inconvenience when it came to dodging around furniture to get her into a proper bed.

He set her down as gentle as could be, throwing another fur over her prone form least she catch a cold. That wouldn't do them any damn good to have her come down with a sickness.

Coming out of the alcove to the Vale wench's stony stare was a trial, but he had learned early on to ignore the fashion of looks others gave him. He could not be judged.

"You'd be wise to keep your hands to yourself, dog." Sandor didn't doubt her words – this wench looked like she had no qualms of getting very physical if need be. His reputation didn't earn him approval from this sodding busybody.

"You'd be wise to keep that mouth shut, wench."

* * *

Footwork was a pain, but he pressed through the lancing ache shooting up his thigh. The leg was healing, but the muscle that was lost to the infection needed to be replaced if he was going to be any good to the others. Dead weight was just that – dead.

His cassock hung from a spare branch in the clearing. No one ever came over to this side of the isle save the wildlife. It was a good walk to here from a game trail secreted behind the stables.

Steel whirled in the air overhead, his movements as ponderous and plotted as they used to be. He felt as silly as a little boy play fighting imaginary foes with a trusty wooden stick, though. No one was around to see his clumsy efforts, though.

A rustle in the thicket halted his blade from cleaving the air in front of it. Out stumbled the little bird, bits of twigs and leaves tangled in the long snare of her hair. She had pinned some of it up and tugged on boots and breeches, tucking her nightshirt tidily in the waist.

"How the Seven Hells did you get out here? Back to the hill – you'll be seen," he spat.

She blanched at his scowl, but she drew herself tall.

"The Elder showed me the way. It's too far off for anyone to see me."

_Damn that meddling man._

"You're in the way."

"Then put me to use. Teach me," she said, motioning towards the gleaming longsword clenched in his fist.

His gorge rose at the thought of teaching a guileless woman the fine art of swordsmanship. It was no silly game. Life or death hung in the balance. But then his mind gently reminded him of the fate they were all going to be meeting in such a short span of time. Essos was no place for stripling girls unversed in the art of even a single weapon.

He pointed with the tip of his blade to the pile of gear situated at the roots of an old oak. There were the bits and pieces of the armor he had worn to the island. A short sword he took care to wear around remained among his possessions still. It would be a bit ungainly for her to wield at first for practice, but he wasn't about to let her go handling sticks as a substitute. They'd be in real danger within a fortnight. He'd rather let her learn the real thing from the start.

"Grip that. Show me what you know."


	9. Sansa IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

She couldn't ease up on the wretched retching. Her gut was roiling with acid, the creeping sensation of it crawling up her throat every time the ship pitched forward on the crest of a wave.

It was winter on the seas. They had the ill fated fortune of catching a gale just coming in from Essos on the first week out on the Narrow Sea. The good ship _Merling_ being their transport, she served well through the winter storms.

A solidly built cog, it seemed sound enough once the tide had drawn them away from the isle in the dead of night. No one was the wiser save for a few trusted brothers who were given the scantest details by the elder brother.

_Randol. Ser Randol Lydden._

They had all dropped pretenses of formalities early on in the week. She and Mya still went by their assumed names of Jeyne and Tansy, smallfolk waylaid by the wars who were seeking their fortunes abroad.

To ward off any unwanted advances, they had decided to travel under assumption that they were wedded. Their sellsword husbands were dragging the pair across Essos to join with the many companies uniting under the banner of the Dragon Queen instead of leaving them vulnerable in the war torn Riverlands.

And so, Tansy Lydden was born. Mya had shrugged into the role well. She and Ser Randol got along nicely – but he was well over half her age.

As was Jeyne Clegane.

"It rhymes!" she had voiced in shock. "Atrociously so," she added as an afterthought.

She had heard Sandor's derisive snort from behind the shrubs. It was after their second bout this morning. He had more than a few chores that day after drawing the lot for grave digging, so their session was cut short. A little progress was made with her footwork, she had thought. She wasn't tripping over herself and even her arms were lean with a tad bit of muscle from working the heavy steel over the past few days.

What really hit her stride was when the Hound had the foresight to make her take up the slender bow from the package.

"It won't snap. Feel it, pull it – we can find you a finer one when the time comes to hand this off to the Targaryen wench."

"I fail to see what these things will do for her," she snapped irritably to the Hound after a futile attempt at bending the bow. She didn't have the strength to even make the lissome bit of weirwood budge. A warning glance quieted her. Tempers were running short as they bided their time on the isle – no telling when a man loyal to the Lannisters might stride across in their search for one Sansa Stark. Or a loyal man to Littlefinger searching for the erstwhile Alayne Stone.

"Put it this way, girl. What would your father be if not for that sword he had before the lions snatched it up?" he asked her gruffly.

Well, it certainly put it in perspective for her.

It was a symbol. All these were symbolic. Symbols had power. Power that would master the kingdoms to the Targaryen's will.

Her cabin door cracked open. The sound ricocheted off her addled brain. She vaguely felt a hand balancing her as another yanked her bowed head out of the porthole and back into the stale air of her compartment.

Warm fingers touched her brow and a tender hand tugged back the oily hanks of hair hanging in her face, never mind the vomit and snot crusting the stringy strands.

"You've caught on a fever, girl. The Stone girl has it bad as well. You're both hopeless on water," a familiar voice muttered into her ear.

Time passed like a slug on a rock. She felt herself being propped up onto a set of strong thighs before he righted her body to lean back against the breadth of his chest.

A wet rag ghosted over her neck, raising gooseflesh as the cold water skated in tiny droplets over the feverish skin. A tear was heard and off came her sweaty tunic, stripping her from the waist downwards. She bit back a yelp as the rag dipped lower, mopping at the sweat coated skin between her breasts before returning businesslike to beneath her armpits.

The touch was purely administrative – indifferent, but with a touch of gentle care that made her ache. Her arms trembled with the effort to raise her hands and cover her shame, the pinked and puckered flesh of her nipples prodding her palms.

Her teeth threatened to bite through her own tongue when the warm hand covered by the cool rag swept over her belly, marking every divot and cranny on her young body before edging over the tender flesh of her thighs. The rough brush of the hand over her thatched mound had her thrashing on his thick thigh with a strange, coiling feeling in her belly that gave rise to a tiny mewl in her throat – but it was squelched by her embarrassment. She felt the corded muscles tense under her arse.

To his credit, he paid her no mind or spoke. He finished tidying her up and shuffled his weight in a measured way through the tiny compartment. A crack to the porthole and briny air was filtered through the cabin for a brief time – adequate to carry out the bad humors and refresh the stale air before he shut it to a tiny crack against the cold.

He banked the brass burner in the corner, tossing a sack of coals until a hearty glow was peering out from the holes of the brazier. A little smoke came with it, but it barely bit at their eyes before it was carried out the slit of the porthole he had left ajar.

"You would make…a most honest nursemaid," she croaked. She sounded like a strangled cat to her ear. He snorted, propping her up like a little doll on the edge of the bed as he worked a thin, clean shift over her head.

"You learn what you can in the camps, little bird. Won't have you dying on us this soon – shorter reign than even your fool of a brother." He set an old camp kettle on the brazier, staring at the coals with the look of utmost concentration. She summoned the strength into her hands to bring them up, clamping them down onto his broad shoulder. He turned, her malformed lips twisting into a scowl at her expression.

"Don't say that about Robb. Ever again," she bit out in her hoarse voice. His expression seemed to soften a bit, and his chin tilted in the tiniest of acknowledgements.

"Up with you," he said, holding the steaming kettle over the basin tugged out from the cupboards. A test of her wobbly legs told her that she wasn't going anywhere – she fell weakly back onto the feather tick as soon as she tried to stand. She heard him set down the kettle, and then she was suspended in his arms before he set her gently down by the cupboards. A bit of adjustment and she was half standing, half leaning over the basin as he made a vice out of his arms to keep her up.

He shifted the thick mass of her dirty hair into the basin, pooling the strands until he tipped the kettle. The water was shy of scalding, but her body welcomed the purifying burn. Her teeth chattered as he sloshed more of the hot water over her scalp and hair.

A vague corner of her mind was muttering vain, lustful little things. The thick press of his muscles across the small of her back. The heat of his breath on the shell of her ear. Even his smell drew her in – a heady musk of clean sweat and the clove spiced mead he was frequently swigging during dinners. His fingers clamped around the rounded turn of her hip to steady her as she bent awkwardly over the basin, gripping shakily at the cupboard edges to keep her balance. In her opinion, holding still for a steaming sheet of hot water to come down on your head on a ship in the middle of a gale was far up on her list of nearly impossible tasks.

It really was a niggling distraction. The way his stomach flexed and pressed into her back as he bent over her prone body left her wanting of more. She didn't dare slink back her hips even the tinniest inch – any closer and they'd be in quite the position.

She felt like a bitch in heat. Simply wanting the will and strength to part her legs, strip his breeches down to his knees and impale herself on that thickened, fleshy-

"Rrgh," she grouched as he caught a snare in her hair with his fingers. They were deft and long, but still massively outsized for her neat little head. He could circle her waist with his hands comfortably, for the love of the Seven. An answering gush of wetness slicked her thighs. Sansa squirmed.

"Shut it," he warned gruffly, but his fingers remained cautious. They worked their way through the tangles gingerly, more so than most serving women she'd ever had near her poor scalp.

"S'that oil?" she slurred, sleepy delirium and fever getting the best of her speech. He grunted in response, working more of the rose scented oil onto her scalp as it cleansed the nasty fluids that accumulated in her hair.

Sansa admitted defeat, slumping into the basin with a moan that would make even the most seasoned brothel wench blush. Her pert rear pressed flush with his hips. A vague sound came from him – some amusing, titillating sound that edged the line between a groan and a growl.

"What s'that dogs do to wolves?" she murmured, her eyes glazing over as her legs spread the tinniest bit to accommodate. Already hard as iron and straining against the seams of his breeches, he was so distinctly male that it made her head swim. A pulsing twitch of his cock answered her, stirring against her bottom. Her body echoed with a tightening in the quim, heart racing to hike her temperature up to heights even the fever couldn't dare reach.

His sudsy hands clamped down on her hips – she sensed more apprehension than want in the touch. It confused her. She wanted this. Didn't he? The ship ducked down into the trough of a wave at that time, sending her off her step and into his hips in a hard grind. His growl deepened into a choke.

A crack at the cabin door didn't break them apart. She was boneless and limp enough from fever and want. She fancied that it would take the combined strength of ten horses to drag her out of this wash dish and off of his hips at this stage in the game.

"Well," said Ser Randol from the door, staring with a mixture of abashment and shock at the odd sight, clutching at a bowl of what looked to be broth. She fancied they looked like they had been caught in a compromising position that would besmirch her maidenly virtue and throw down her good name. A hulking man was crouched over her with his hands on her hips and her arse pulled square up on his groin – she was the sitting duck with her head in a basin of dirty water.

They didn't mention this consuming feeling in all the chivalrous ballads of courtesy and courtly love.

Seven keep their silly tales, she thought. She wouldn't miss this wash for all the frilly declarations of admiration in the world.


	10. Sandor II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

The little bird had fared better once her feet were set on steady, solid ground. He'd be prideful to say he didn't feel a mite sickly at sea. For one, he was rightly thankful for whatever the Seven did to calm the waters for the last leg of the watery travels. Not only did it cease the roiling in all their guts, but it got him out of the close quarters with the bewitching redhead that had become his lady liege.

It was his first time in Essos – he'd never ventured far from Westeros in his odd years and had never intended to.

Pentos was a feast for the eyes, though. Tall, strongly structured brick towers pierced the sky at a respectable height to rival the spires of Oldtown and King's Landing. Villas terraced the hills and high walls curtained lush gardens that threatened to spill out over the tops into the grassy lanes.

They'd disembarked and bid the captain to burn all evidence of their crossing. He'd complied at the promise of a hefty bonus and even torched the sheets they'd slept in for good measure. The log was altered and the crew simply was kept in the dark concerning the identities of their latest passengers.

Soon enough Ser Randol had collected their worse for wear mounts from the hold along with their belongings.

Sandor had flatly refused to leave the old destrier. Selfish of him, as the horse would've lived comfortably on the Quiet Isle and catered to despite his brutish temperament. But as sure as the wind was strong, the horse had nearly knocked the wall of his box out when he caught sight of Sandor lugging out his tack from the stable's storerooms.

They were all dressed down to simple roughspun and leather. What was left of his armor was strapped across Stranger's rump – likewise with Ser Randol. The elder brother seemed well at ease on the placid plowhorse he'd brought from the isle. The Stone girl rode pillion with her 'husband' as the little bird did, but sat more at ease in the saddle with just an arm slung over Ser Randol's broad shoulder.

Sansa was a different tale. She clung to him like a prickly spur, her head held high but the better half of her form molded to his backside. It was a distraction that had his grip on the reins jerky enough for even Stranger's mouth of iron to notice. The horse shot him a look that seemed to ask 'What's the trouble?'

He simply nudged the horse with his knees. The stallion didn't put up much of an argument – every lane was well manicured and bogged down with thick turf. Compared to the shit slicked cobbles of King's Landing, this was a horse's dream for a thoroughfare.

The villa they came to put even the fairest he'd seen so far to shame. It was expansive, set high on a hill with terraced gardens and statues littering the grounds.

A few fat men in breechcloths and spiked helms stood sentry at the ornate gates.

"Unsullied," he said to Sansa after her question tickled the shell of his ear. "Best foot soldiers you can buy."

She murmured in surprise, obviously having heard a thing or two of such men.

The soldiers rasped out in the thin, high voices you could only cull from castration before puberty – albeit in the stilted Valyrian dialect of the city. Sansa, bless her, did her best to stutter out a reply.

Whatever she said gave the stoic guards pause enough to send a runner from the gatehouse up to the manse, and soon they were admitted at spear point into the grounds. Sandor shot them all a damning look, keeping a hand on his hilt and nudging Stranger into a mood. Stranger's moods were whimsical in terms of battle ready – anywhere from a bone crushing kick to a wicked bite that would take fingers and noses with it. But the stallion was brimming with pent up energy that coiled in his bulky frame. Too many months spent idle had made him as fidgety as his master, and hungry for a good fight.

The stallion still kept his composure despite his ears being pinned back.

"Friends! Welcome!" boomed a sonorous voice in the common tongue from the manse's foyer after they were led in by the Unsullied. Tension dissolved from his traveling companions, but Sandor didn't flag off. He held his ground behind the little bird and sent looks to the Unsullied that had even their disciplined stares narrowing in guarded wariness; all the while he eyed the fattest man he'd ever seen in all his years that had come to greet them. Which was substantial – he'd seen his share of fat fucks, but this one took the lead in terms of massiveness.

The fat fuck made some noise over their worn appearance, and then slobbered over the little bird's hand after she had dipped a proper, prim curtsy in her rough spun jerkin and breeches. She was starting to have that effect on men that made Sandor seethe – not that he could blame them.

"Sad am I to see that you come so worn out, friends. But glad am I to see a plan come together so neatly! This humble servant goes by the name of Illyrio Mopatis, a trader in spices and other such rare goods," he rumbled out in the deep voice from within that bulging throat. Sandor had an instant sense of dislike for the man, but he had a dislike for most. This one, however, struck him as especially suspicious.

Randol made his greetings, introducing them all by their true names and ending with Sansa –now Lady Stark for all intents and purposes. Illyrio's fleshy lips stretched into a fat, piggy grin at that.

"I had the honor of hosting your husband not long ago, Lady Stark. He is, how you say, very  _feisty_ , no?"

Sansa paled a few shades, and Sandor saw her hands tremble in a small show of shock. The Imp alive?

Sandor toyed with the image of punting the little lion's head into the sea after he had rid the little bird of the burden of her spouse – but then came back to himself as the conversation picked back up.

It seemed that this 'humble trader' had a personal investment of restoring Tyrion as Lord of Casterly Rock along with the last Targaryen to the throne of Westeros – Sansa seemed to fall into the category of someone he wanted back on the throne in Winterfell. Or at least, that was what Sandor surmised. What use was the little bird to this greasy sea cow otherwise?

They were led through the foyer littered with tinkling fountains and odd, expensive curios into the guest wing. Everyone was given their own chamber for the short visit. Sandor resisted the urge to snort as the fat fuck led the little bird to the chambers that rivaled the royal bedroom in Maegor's Holdfast. But to her credit, Sansa didn't bat an eye at the gesture Illyrio was making. She just bowed and murmured her thanks in that infuriatingly gracious and womanly way that drove the Hound up the wall.

Illyrio made his departure with his half-dressed army of servants and left the four alone in the chambers.

"Well," the Stone girl said, "it could be worse."

"Much worse," Randol agreed. He didn't seem as overawed like they all should be by such grand surroundings – in fact, all four of them were rather on edge. Despite being situated in an obvious ally's house.

"I trust the greasy lummox about as far as I could throw him," Sandor grunted. The others got the idea that even someone as oversized and muscle corded as the Hound wouldn't manage to toss the Magister all that far.

"You pair off with the Stone chit tonight and keep watch in her room, Lydden. I'll keep watch over her," he muttered to the knight with a pointed glare at Sansa. She raised her chin a few degrees at the look.

"I think it's in our best interest to not be rude – wash up and join him for dinner?" Sansa said diplomatically to the rougher companions.

They all agreed, and the other man and woman left for their chambers and packs that had been brought up. Fresh pressed gowns and tunics were laid out on the expansive silk bed canopied in the center of Sansa's room, and Sandor found similar garments in a male fashion on his chamber's bed after he had left her room thoroughly turned over for any lurking assassins or other such deadly devices. He scowled, rounding on the washbasin and stripping down to his breeches to tidy himself with the clean scented soaps and sea sponge. The least he could do was give the good half of his face a trim and put on the gifted clothes. Just to show the little bird he could chirp and engage in this mummer's farce as well as she could.

He didn't quite give a shit about his appearance. But he could start caring in order to keep their only hope of income content and satisfied like the others were making an effort to show their thanks towards.


	11. Sansa V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

Spearing a bit of quail egg on the end of her eating knife, Sansa delicately raised it for a nibble as she listed to Illyrio gush on about the health benefits of the sulfur water he was shipping privately from Bravos. Then the conversation took a turn for the droll when Mya had the pluck to inquire if Master Illyrio had ever visited the city.

Sansa could tell the Stone girl was just picking over the fat magister like a vulture – she played this game with countless men. Run them up a wall and turn them cross-eyed with her sly smiles. Illyrio was happy to oblige the lithe young woman, and soon Sansa turned to her other dinner companions for a touch of conversation. Sandor sat like a solid bulwark between her and Illyrio's massive bulk rolled out on his special couch drawn up to the circular table. Ser Randol took up her other side, and Mya after that.

The northern girl had to suppress disgust as the Pentoshi noble stuck a whole meaty pigeon's wing dripping with juice into his mouth only to draw it out clean of flesh in one suckling pop.

"My lord," Sansa said, clearing her throat after her voice came out a broken squeak. She started up, confidence wreathing her words to make them stronger like her mother did. "I'm curious to ask – Lord Tyrion was in your care for a time?"

"Concerning that, I sent him off with a few honored associates of mine. They were off to seek the services of the Golden Company in grand Volantis – doubtless the gentle ladies have heard the valor of that mercenary company even as far as Westeros?" Illyrio spread his hands magnanimously. Both girls dipped their heads in acknowledgement.

Sandor shifted beside her, obviously stewing over the notion of Tyrion drawing air still. Sansa was at a loss. The deformed and cynical dwarf had done her no wrong during their brief time as a wedded sham, but Lannisters were Lannisters. Except this Lannister had killed his father and thus eliminated one large threat against her.

Perhaps he could be a great ally still – Jaime Lannister could inherit no lands or any of the wealth of Casterly Rock due to his oaths taken as a Kingsguard. Cersei would not outlive this war to inherit the wealth.

Sansa was sure of this. That left Tyrion to inherit a sizeable amount, enough to loan her towards rebuilding Winterfell and setting the northern coffers to rights. The Manderlys couldn't be doing that bad off in the economic sense, could they? Perhaps they could loan her the sorely needed gold in good faith. White Harbor always had been a huge source of income in her father's ledgers with the fishing trade, but in a war there was little to go around.

But these were problems for the future. Step one was getting to Daenerys where she could prostrate herself flat on the floor before the dragon queen and beg clemency.

"And, on that note, which route do you all intend to take to reach fair Meereen?"

Sandor snorted at the word 'fair' used to describe Meereen. Sansa had heard the cities of Slaver's Bay were magnificent in their own splendor, but the entire glimmer was for nothing. Slavery made her wame curdle something terrible.

"Ride like wildfire 'cross land towards it, pray nothing delays," Sandor growled out. Her Hound wasn't in the best of moods, but the tunic with the silver piping fit him lovely. His hair shined from a fresh wash, and the clean scent of lye and cloves washed over her every time he made the slightest shift.

It was embarrassing how her body responded. A quickening in the pulse, a tightening in her belly. Even places  _below_  slickened and quivered at every scrape of her smallclothes against her sex. Blooming sexuality was a pain, and her shyness around her fierce Hound was far outracing the sweet agony tugging at her nerves.

What was worse, Sandor seemed to know. She caught the flare of his nostrils – how his pupils blew up in the soft lighting of the terrace torches when he caught sight of her slim hands twisting her napkin into strained knots. Could he  _smell_  her? The notion brought a fresh bloom of heat to her cheeks.

"Ah, the most straightforward approach. With the winter weather upon us, gales are more common in the seas. Might be best to not risk the Smoking Sea for the water route like our poor Lord Lannister is trying for," tittered Illyrio, mopping sweat off his bulging brow as the bronze-collared servants carted away the plates to replace them with the final course.

A sweet coating of browned sugar over a little round of lemon cake, each with a small pitcher of thickly iced cream. Sansa felt her palms start to sweat at the sight of it.

When was the last time she'd had a proper lemon cake? Before her flight from King's Landing, that was for sure. Sandor simply forked up a piece into his mouth and pushed it away like he'd done every dish put before him. Sansa couldn't tell if it was disdain for the host or a simple way of avoiding a spoiled stomach on such rich fare. She'd be paying for it later, she was sure.

The girl tried to restrain herself, upending the pitcher of cream over the confectionary treat before working her way through the cake. But the lemon filling in the center was too much. She made noise over the deliciousness towards her host, being genuinely honest. It was a slice close to paradise, and for a moment she could close her eyes and pretend she was back in the warmth of Winterfell's kitchens. Old Nan would be by the fire screeching about how ladies did not gobble like hogs. Arya scarfing hers just as quick. Bran hopping around the countertops and giving the cooks trouble.

And suddenly she was back on a fire lit terrace in the middle of a sprawling Pentoshi garden, the delicate smell of hibiscus cloying in her nose. But her plate was clear save for crumbs, the memory long past.

"Well, honored guests, I leave the planning of your route entirely up to you. I shall fund whatever direction you decide to take with sound mounts and plenty of coin, supplies. Whatever your heart should wish. I should like to speak with the Lady Sansa on the morning of your departure – I take it that you are all leaving with the dawn?" The magister glanced around the table, his piggy eyes focusing on her.

At their simultaneous nods, Illyrio chuckled. "So eager! But I do love a brisk, business savvy approach to the issue at hand."

Dinner was broken down, Sandor rising to shift her seat out and offer an arm with a terse "walk" gritted at her. Illyrio was already being wheeled off on his couch towards wherever they rolled him into a bed – Sansa would like to know the size and make of that piece of furniture that wouldn't splinter under his enormous girth night after night.

She took his arm, waving a goodnight at Ser Randol and Mya. Both of them looked not at all surprised by the two of them breaking off. Her sworn shield, as it was.

He sped them off along one path towards a charming grotto, minding the hem of her diaphanous gown. It was a lovely periwinkle, matching the amethyst combs holding back the glossy length of loose hair spilling down her naked back. It was square cut across the bust and scandalously low in the back, all the rage in the realm of Pentoshi women's fashion.

Sansa was too full of rich food and wine to feel all that aflutter around her Hound. It was too lovely a night, she was too far from the grasping claws of the threats in Westeros, and her journey to get home was just starting on the dawn.

Sandor was trying to spoil it all with that black expression. His boots dug into the gravel of the path, wrenching her down into a shaded alcove in the wall alongside him. A fountain nearby was tinkling, moonlight reflecting off the marbled form of a naked bravo poised in midstride with blade raised. It reminded her of Arya's little sword.

"This fat bastard of a greedy whore is going to want something out of you for this favor he's doing," he barked out, lowering his voice in the still of the night. A bird warbled in the bush nearby.

"I know," Sansa said softly, reassuringly to the Hound. Her hand rose unbidden to cup the scarred cheek, smoothing a thumb over the twisted knot of tissue. The man jerked away as if the touch itself was fire to the flesh.

She couldn't help the tears that rose in her vision. So stupid of her. A knot was forming in her throat, and she worked to speak past it. "Am I that unwanted? Do I repulse you?"

He froze, and for a moment Sansa held her breath as his rough hand rose to catch at her poised wrist and wrap it in a warm grip. "No, little bird. I don't want you touching me because I'm afraid I won't have the restraint to stop what comes next," he said gruffly into her ear. Their bodies seemed to be backing themselves further into the corner, ivy fronds curling into hair to tickle and tease out the red strands.

Every detail started to become so keen. Sansa could feel the heat of him through the linen of his dark breeches – feel the corded lines of muscle straining against the fabric when her slipper ran up the length of his calf. Suddenly she was caught between the wall and his body, surging up against him with his hands cinching around her waist for leverage. Turmoil was in the grey of his eyes as he locked them with hers, and then drifted over her face to the lee of her cleavage towards the fluttering hollow of her throat. Finally, her mouth. She curved it for him in a small smile, tears still dewy on the fringe of her lashes.

"We need to stop overthinking," she said a bit breathlessly. "And just…"

"I put you too high on your fucking pedestal to touch you, little bird," he rasped out, the sweet smell of the wine on his breath mingling between them. She took his hesitation out of the equation, leaning to catch his twisted lips against her own in a hot lock of flesh.

Time slipped away, and before she shut her eyes against all the wonderful feelings she caught sight of his flaring in surprise only to narrow into something primal and needy. Hands – both sets – couldn't keep still all of a sudden. Whether it was her slim fingers grasping the straining planes of his back shifting under the soft tunic to his thick ones smoothing over the swell of her hip and the curve of her belly beneath the gown, touch was mutual. Touch was needed – it was like the thin thread of their connection would break if one of them  _stopped_.

But neither was stopping. For her first go at a serious kiss with a full-grown man, she did very little. Simple fluttering movements seemed to spur him on, their mouths melding perfectly before she plucked up the gall to fork the tip of her tongue against the scarred side of his mouth. Then a deep, guttural moan filled the quiet alcove as Sandor let her in, shaking and swearing against her before she quieted him with a plunge of the tongue into his slack mouth.

The sounds that followed had her more content.  _Those_  she wanted – the tiny movements of her hips rising against his flat belly before her hands groped over his biceps. She tasked herself with finding an inch of him that wasn't hard with muscle, but failed. Every part of her Hound was physically perfect save for the half of his face ruined by the flame, but even that she found perfect in its own way.

Even the feel of his hips between her legs was like a solid pillar of stone once she had hitched up her thighs and clasped him closer to her, skirts riding up indecently to let the air drift around her bare knees. She felt him freeze up at the intimate press of flesh on flesh, biting down fiercely on his lip at one jolting scrape of his hardened length up against the soaked scraps of her smallclothes.

"Stop. Seven Hells," he groaned out. For a moment, she couldn't tell if he was shooting the directive at her or coaching himself to have the restraint. Sansa really couldn't care. She was too intent on raking out every noise from the restrained man, drawing out every sensation pent up between the both of them.

None of the attraction made sense, but to them both it made all the sense. They were drawn whether they wanted it or not. But for now, she'd relent. It'd be the last chance for privacy for at least a month, though. She eased her head back and let their mouths gently fall away.

"I'm sorry," she added in a hushed undertone. Sandor simply gave her a glinting look.

"For what, little bird? You reap what you sow. I wasn't complaining," he added, gently easing her down to the ground. Her legs wanted to buckle, but she forced herself straight and standing.

"It's just…all so messy. You and I," she said quietly, never breaking her eyes away from him. She couldn't look away – this was all so important. Couldn't he see that?

"It is," he said with no small amount of gravity. Something flickered behind his grey gaze, and his hand rose to cup her cheek in a mimic of her earlier gesture. But nothing further. No kisses, no intimate words. He simply stared at her for a moment longer before drawing away.

"I'll wait at the stairs 'til you decide to turn in for the night. Don't stray out of this section of the garden. You should get some rest – I'll keep watch throughout," he said, mask slipping back on as he returned to his usual self. All rough edges and stodgy protectiveness.

Unreachable.

Sansa collapsed on the little stone bench after his heavy footfalls receded, weeping wretchedly into her upturned palms. This was not like the pretty songs or stories. This was a bitter cup to swallow. A creeping, slow poison she'd been subjected to for the last year. Ever since he'd pried a song and kiss from her in the burning light of the green fire, steel against her throat.

Wanting what she could never have.

All so very, very messy.


	12. Sandor III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

"It's hotter than a sheep fucking another in full wool in the middle of a Dornish summer in the desert," groused the Stone girl from her high seat on a leggy dun gelding. Courtesy of the Lord of Lard, the generous magister of Pentos had outfitted them with the finest quality gear he could purchase second-hand.

Sandor had to give him a little credit in that respect – the fat bastard wasn't so stupid to give them the flash and glamor of new things that would attract unwanted attention on the long ride towards Slaver's Bay. The horses weren't fresh yearling – simply tradeoffs from some livery yard near the docks. All were a breed of Dornish horses built for stamina. Not much in size or looks, but damned near impossible to tire out in terms of thirst or distance.

Stranger didn't give an ounce of care one way or the other. He just kept on slogging through the leagues with lather building on his dark flanks while the other three mounts weren't even winded. Sandor remembered why the destrier was worth every damn golden dragon he'd pissed out for his buying price.

He flicked sweat from his brow, glancing over his shoulder at the rider and horse behind Stranger. Sound hocks, perfect hindquarters balanced high on an even set of hips. Strong back. The horse wasn't so bad either.

Sansa had a grip of iron that needed adjusting over the weeks, but the little bird had listened well after he'd given her a smart rap across the knuckles a few times with the flat of his sword 'til she got the idea. She rode as fidgety as she was dismounted.

Never could sit still in once place for long, his bird.

The black she was astride was a lovely little thing in comparison to the other two Dornish horses. Perfect conformation, a thick neck with the slightest arch in it, and a dainty head. Feathering as dark as sealskin on her pasterns to boot. The old brute he was astride was thoroughly over the moon about the little mare.

Sansa had the pluck to dub the thing 'Maiden'. He had a sneaking suspicion it was to match her temperament to the goddess, much like his Stranger was to the actual Stranger. Almost made him crack a rueful smile. Almost.

"Qohor has the cats like Lannister lions, only stripped?" she trilled from his side, jogging up her mare to keep pace with Stranger's stride. The warhorse normally would have reared and bitten the other horse bloody. But considering the horse, his once prized mount simply sighed and snorted like a love-struck idiot to draw closer to the little mare and bring Sandor closer to Sansa. Their thighs bumped, and he caught her glancing away with a tint of color in her cheeks.

Sun was bleaching some of her hair a brighter red with a touch of strawberry. Even her creamy skin had the audacity to flare up in a tan. The little chit was getting as brown as a nut like the Stone girl. But neither seemed to mind losing a lady's complexion. He didn't either. It made the blue of her eyes burn bright from her darker face, and the whiteness of her neat teeth stand out glaringly bright when she smiled at him.

He was sorely fucked, he'd come to realize. In the garden that night all those weeks ago, he'd realized how deeply he had it for the chit half his age and too good for his wretched, burnt out husk of an existence.

But he was content to watch her grow. Watch her sit better in the damn saddle and adjust her grip. Spit bones out over the fire when she was nibbling on a speared fish by the firelight. How her mouth parted in sleep –

Fuck it. He was losing his edge like this. Dothraki screamers would be fucking him in the arse one night before he'd know it, simply because he was too busy mooning like a lovesick lad over his charge.

"Aye. But just as many teeth and claws for tearing as a lion of the Rock," he admitted. Once, he'd found great pleasure in soaking up those sort of facts from the passages of books from the manse's library as a lad. Those were the long months of healing after Gregor had shoved him face first into the coals and held him there. Wailing and burning and meat sloughing off –

"Do they stay in the…what are they called – prides?" her voice pierced the memory, bringing him back to the present and the roll of her hips in the tooled leather saddle. He'd kill for a skin of strongwine tonight to drown out these annoyances. Her, and the memories she roused.

"Solitary. They come and go as they like – nothing like lions. Or wolves," he said, shooting her a look.

"Some wolves go on alone. But they don't survive as long…as they do with the pack."

After that, she drifted off with her own memories and a haunted look in her eyes, as if the words spoken brought back some important detail she'd long forgotten.

They'd long since passed through the dense forest near the city of Qohor, making a beeline for the grasslands of the Dothraki. Three days already in the thick, gods forsaken shrub grass brown from lack of rains had convinced Sandor that whoever or whatever they ran across in this flat hell would be either poor or thirsty. Worse if it was hordes of poor, thirsty Dothraki short a few slaves to trade and water stores depleted. Ser Randol and Mya rode with a cask each collected from the lusher areas they'd traversed before the grass sea. In these droughts, water was more precious than any silver or gold.

His eyes turned towards the sky, then to the track cut through the grass that rose over even his head. Single file was a vulnerable way to ride, so he had them pair up in twos with Lydden and Mya taking up the front while he formed the rear with the little bird. Monotonous hours passed in silence, sometimes with idle chatter.

He didn't care much for the chatter.

* * *

"Mind your side!" he snarled, not willing to put much movement into the verbal reprimand. He was bone weary and slumped against the pile of his tack by the fireside. Their female companions were dancing near the fire with dirks – dulled edges, of course. The Stone girl was one of the nastiest knife fighters he'd ever seen. Considerable, since he'd spent more than a few nights in Flea Bottom to see the quickest cutthroats at work with their dirks and stilettos.

Either the Vale was a very treacherous place that called for close combat knowledge or the lanky stick of a girl had a love for the knife.

The red-haired girl heard his warning, and pivoted around a low jab to swing the momentum of her leg to meet the Stone girl's open side in a jarring blow. Tumbling to the ground, both girls gave it a good scrape before Mya finally gained the high ground and flipped Sansa – the dull edge of the knife at her throat signified the end of another mock duel between the two. Sansa scrambled to her feet, eager for another try. She'd came out on top of the first match, but the Stone girl had picked up her pace to accommodate with a few new flashy moves and had since held the winning streak.

Sansa was getting a thorough coaching in close combat. He was working through the more complex exercises with the blade and bow during the first hour after camp was set up with her. The hour after their small meals was dedicated to either learning the knife with the Stone girl or learning more of this grand plan from Lydden.

Her progress was halting. He didn't expect her to sail through the lessons with ease, but it was better than he could expect out of a gently bred girl who'd never had the need to pick up a weapon. She was showing a keen proficiency for the bow, though. Knew enough about swordsmanship to not gut herself and instead gut the attacker. But he was hoping to be present at the time anyone was fool enough to come at her with bared steel.

Nothing would touch her as long as he drew breath.

If only he could keep his distance in the process of safeguarding the Stark girl. But the further he drew away, the more she advanced. He wasn't what she needed. Not the Florian to her sodding Jonquil.

The girls broke it off after Sansa managed to wrench around Mya's wrist in a clever fulcrum turn, pointing her own dagger in on the throat of the Stone girl. "I yield!" the Vale wench shouted, all good humor and smiles. Sandor could sympathize. It was good when the little bird stopped being so stubborn and took a lesson to heart, using what was taught to her.

"Bed," insisted Lydden from his bedroll. Mya simply tidied up her precious set of knives and rolled them in their oilcloth for a makeshift pillow, joining Lydden by the fire on the bedrolls. The heat of the night was considerably less than that of the day, but still warm enough to not merit blankets. Everyone slept comfortably warm in their own clothes.

Sansa had ducked behind the fringe of grasses towards a small brook they had happened upon, and Sandor found the willpower to slug himself off of his comfortable seat to keep watch.

She was well into the brush by the time he had sloshed across the muddy water, wetting her face and scraping dirt from under her ragged nails.

"They'll get just as dirty an hour into the ride tomorrow," he chided. Not so unkindly, but old habits did die hard.

"I know. It's just a comfort." She didn't glance up, instead fixing her eyes on the sluggish, miniscule trickle of water ebbing across the damp channel of grass. He crouched on the opposite side. Again, he couldn't really control the hand that reached out to catch her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to catch the sliver of moonlight glancing through the screen of grass.

But the sight of her was worth breaking his rule.

"You're to marry and birth little lords once the Imp either does the proper thing by you and dies, or has this all annulled." His voice came out flat, and he wasn't even convinced by the tone. The Hound, brought to his knees by such a slip of a girl. But he'd give anything for her in his bed 'til the end of their days. That hair fanning out over the pillow, or the sweet curve of her breast filling his palm. The mingling of her breath on his tongue as he slipped into her body, strung up tight and aching by the sound of her want.

"He didn't touch me. Petyr either," she said in a thin, reedy voice that broke the silence. Sandor blanched. Still a bloody maiden, fair as they come. He felt more shame creep into his soul for touching her. She could be such a silly thing, and selfish at times in her own absorbed way. But a truer heart he'd never come across in all his years on this shitty world.

"I'm no good for you, little bird. You need a younger man whole and healthy, less damn damaged. I've done too many things, seen too many things and done nothing by them. Acts I'd take back, and acts I'd do over a thousand times simply because I'm no sodding hero. I kill, and I enjoy it," he rasped, drawing his hand back across the brook.

But she caught it halfway, knees submerging in the mud as she met him across the water and clasped her mouth against him. Ah, gods. He'd die with the taste of her on his lips if he ever had luck like this on the day of his reckoning.

Sweet with dried apricots, her kittenish tongue always was clever and quick for such an untried maiden. It set his blood to a slow boil, and his hands delved down her back to grasp at the rounded curve of her arse. Jerking her into a heap on his lap, they forgot the world for a while and simply sucked the air from the other's lungs until one broke apart for breath.

But she would chase him just as soon as he drew in air for his starving body, her mouth sweeter and lusher than anything he'd ever touched. Even he had limits. The way her body grinded into his damn cock promised that he wouldn't have much trouble spilling her virgin's blood here in the tall grass – at least physically.

Something resembling his good sense nagged on, though, and he pried her mouth off with a frustrated snarl. Sansa seemed to come back to herself, Tully blue eyes dimmed over with lust pierced by reason. Thank the gods.

"This…isn't the time or place, I agree," she said in a demure murmur, fidgeting on his thigh. He fought back a groan. She'd kill him at this pace.

"Up with you, little bird," he managed after a moment of self-collection, easing her tall form up and gently shoving her through the screen of grass towards camp.

"Aren't you coming?" she shot back in a whisper, already starting to walk towards the fire where Lydden and the Stone wench slept on.

"I need a fucking moment," he snapped back, boots sloshing through the stream towards a place out of the way. He sorely needed to come, or elsewise risk dragging the little bird off into the high grass like some Dothraki dimwit with his brains in his cock.

And what was worse, she was becoming more of a willing participant to the act if her enthusiastic initiations of heated kisses were any indicator. He was sorely fucked. Literally.

* * *

It wasn't until a few weeks later, when they were really into the heart of the Dothraki Sea, that anything of note occurred. Another day, another plodding pace through the dry grasses. They came over the rise of one hill before movement on the lower plain caught his eye.

"Down!" he barked at the others, throwing himself from Stranger's saddle to hit the dirt with sword drawn. The stallion eased himself onto the ground in a coiled heap of horseflesh and gear, snorting his distaste but obeying his master's signals and tugs.

The other horses went down after a few hand signals and urgings, their riders' breathing shallow in heightened anticipation. Not once had they come across anything but the occasional hare or bird in the Dothraki Sea.

"String of horses – maybe two hundred. Small cavalry outfit," he said in a low voice to the others. Lydden slunk up beside him on his belly, fisting a looking glass to extend out and peer through. A natural part in the high grass provided them with a small window facing all the action.

Sansa drew up close to press to his side, fidgeting only slightly to string a yew bow in her grip and check her quiver. He'd made her fletch the damn arrows herself. The proximity was reassuring, as was her readiness. If she ever did have the hour of need where he was unable to kill whatever it was trying to get at her, she had the fighting chance of killing it first.

That much he could give her.

"Probably one of the bigger  _khalasars_  that fractioned from Drogo's old horde. Khal Jhaqo, Illyrio called him," muttered Lydden under his breath, spying through the looking glass at the passing lines of horsemen. He passed it on to Sandor after a moment.

"Moving very fucking fast," Sandor amended after getting a look at the torrent of horsemen moving at breakneck speeds through the thick grasses. From their vantage, it was odd. Nothing pursued and no rival horde was at their back. Why the mad rush, then? Sandor raised the looking glass back up, peering through to glance at the faces of some of the closer riders. Pure, unbridled terror was written there.

"Holy Seven," muttered Mya from behind them. She at least sat upright near the horses and had a higher view. Sandor squinted in irritation as the sun's light fell away into darkness and dulled the vision of the looking glass. But there wasn't a damn cloud hanging in the blue sky overhead. He felt Sansa twist by his side to look at Mya, but then froze mid-movement.

A shadow moved across them, slowly leeching the heat of the sun from their bodies as the solid cadence of wing beats filled the air. He dropped the looking glass, for once feeling the real stirrings of fear for the first time in a long while.

In all the stories he'd ever read about them, all the songs sung – Sandor had never once breathed life into the illustrations or sodding descriptions by giving the idea of the creature much thought. Even less after Gregor had burned him. The Targaryens were dead, and their dragons with them.

The shadow took form over the plain in the form of a black beast, terrible to behold. It fell from the sky to grasp a charging rider in its black maw, the needles of dark bone crunching into the meat and viscera of the screaming Dothraki before flesh sloughed off in a wave of scorching heat.

None of the girls screamed. Too frozen in fear, they shrunk in on themselves at the sight. Lydden even swore under his breath beside him. The horses were having none of it – Stranger was sweating with the effort of not rearing up from the ground and bolting. But like their human masters, all were too transfixed by fear at the sight of the dragon feeding on the dying steed of the Dothraki. What was left of the rider dripped from its maw, black flame scorching the horseflesh with trailing veins of red tingeing the unnatural fire.

He couldn't fucking move. It was the colossal embodiment of the sodding thing that still made him freeze in fear and scream in his night terrors. An arm reached to snatch the little bird to him, clutching tightly at his sword. What good were weapons against it? The Hound was unmatched by any man in that respect. But this beast of fire…

Embers. The eyes – like living embers. Red pits of flame, they rose with the great head to turn in their direction, nostrils flaring in the narrow snout. Wind was whipping down their rise towards the plain, and further on the retreating horde vanished in their mad dash away from the beast.

Their scent was carried downwind.

It smelled them.


	13. The Silver Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

She was supposed to be following an offshoot of the Skahazadhan, or at least what she suspected was a tributary of the sluggish brown river, back towards Meereen. Drogon had refused her commands and urgings earlier, simply indulging in his own version of paradise. Open plains, plentiful game to fill his gullet, and a warm lair out of the night's chill.

What was left of her  _tokar_ hung in scraps from her shoulders and narrow hips, not much of a covering in the arid heat of the Dothraki Sea. She wouldn't suffer from exposure as the nights were so hot as well, but her gut was twisting back up in knots like the last few days since they had flown from the fighting pits.

She'd bled more from her womb, but not a serious amount. More like a little spotting that dripped between her legs and splattered onto the grass in thick, viscous blobs of black blood. All that mattered was that it wasn't killing her.

Dany decided that the berries she'd swallowed weren't a safe bet in any case, considering the state of her constitution and the utterly miserable feel of her body. She felt like an anvil under the smith's hammer, only without the noise and clatter. Every inch of her ached.

The surprise she'd felt earlier in the day when Jhaqo had arrived with his small pack of bloodriders and screamers had dulled some. Still, they had paused in a brief moment of staring down one another from across the field, and Dany had marveled at the ridiculousness of it all. Even Mago's face hadn't faded from her memory as she viewed him rearing up his mount and riding like his life depended on it.

Which it did. A short snarl of rage that had shocked her issued from her throat, and that was all the directive Drogon needed to set off after the riders and leave Dany the rest of the horseflesh. She was touched by her child's thoughtfulness, but picked more towards the charred meat of the corpse where the black beast had been feasting to err on the side of caution. Raw flesh reminded her too keenly of the time she had to swallow down the horse heart before the  _dosh khaleen_.

She'd resumed her walk once her belly was full and clawed away a few cooked strips of meat for later, wrapping the remains in grass and stuffing her skirt's waist with it.

A vague fancy of calling back Drogon so she could really cut her teeth on training him played around in her mind. After all, she'd made her vows. Eroeh's blood was on all of their hands, and Dany had sworn they would plead for the mercy they had shown her.

For now, she was tired. Too tired to carry on. The midday sun hung over her head, and another cramping knot clenched her belly and brought her to her knees. Soon after the rest of the horsemeat she'd wolfed down with her child came up, and she wiped the sick from her chin as it dripped into the grass.

Coiling up in a thicket of sweetbriar and springy nettles deep in the grasses, she prayed for Drogon's keen sense of smell to help him find his way back to her. He never strayed all that far, after all.

Dany steeled herself, reciting to herself that she was of the dragon's blood. Nothing could harm her as long as she fought it hard enough. But another twist in her gut that brought tears to her vision made her acknowledge the creeping fear that something was terribly wrong.

* * *

Ah. There it was – sweet relief of water drenched over her brow. Low voices speaking near her ear, and the tinkle of a stream.

"-very sick," said a burly, thick voice in the common tongue of Westeros. Fingers worked over her pulse point to press there, and for a moment she wanted the strength to drag her eyes open and look upon the face she knew to be hovering over her. But the strength wasn't there. Dany contented herself with listening – absorbing the tiny details she could perceive with her other faculties.

Someone had stripped her of the dirty  _tokar_ and dressed her in roughspun. Only a tunic and breeches, but they felt a world better than the flimsy silk stained with nearly a week's worth of sweat. She imagined she didn't quite look like herself in this state. Even her hair was greasy and dull with dirt and grime, not at all the lustrous silver she was known for. It was wise to keep it that way.

Friend or foe, she was at their mercy. Better for them to think she was some noble who'd been abducted from one of the slaver cities, or a slave freshly bought from a Yunkai pleasure house for a  _khal_ who'd broken free of the  _khalasar_. It all sounded plausible to her.

"She's very thin," said a high, sweet voice near her head. A hand mopped the crust of dirt from her brow with the wet rag cooling it, tender and very precise in movement.

"Not enough water. The fluids in her body are all drained. See how her skin has lost its tightness when I pinch her here?" Dany felt the man gently gather up a bit of slack skin on the back of her hand, releasing it after a moment. The cottony, dry feel of her mouth evaporated when the girl raised the lip of a water skin to it, easing a strong set of thighs under Dany's head while soothing the trickle down her throat with a guiding hand.

"I managed to get an antidote down her throat before she started seizing. Sandor's horse near about trampled her, not that I can blame it. We can thank the Seven that the beast had its fill and thought us small game in comparison to the brace of Dothraki riding hell for leather in the other direction," said the soft, kindly man after they had eased her head under a bedroll and tucked her tight into blankets near the fire. The heat was atrocious, but Dany did not stir. Sweat trickled in rivulets from her brow, and the girl hovered over her to force more water down her throat on the minute.

"It wouldn't have eaten us. We stood our ground," said the girl quietly. Dany wanted to quirk her lips at that, but kept her face as still and slack as one in a deep sleep. "Besides, we all look a bit underfed compared to those Dothraki. And Stranger is too ornery to be eaten by a dragon. Sandor would…merely give it indigestion," she giggled, and Dany's mouth twitched a little despite her best efforts.

"I've got ears, little bird. Tend to the girl and stop with your nattering," rumbled a deeper voice full of gravel and hoarseness from the other side of the fire.

"You're as bad as a septa at times, my lord," shot back the girl.

"Spoiled girls with sharp tongues need a septa to rap them across the knuckles and remind them of their manners," the man said, his tone wreathed with quiet amusement.

"Envisioning your oversized arse in a septa's habit isn't how I wanted to end my evening, Clegane," shouted a voice from further away, the sound of footsteps rustling the dry grass before a body sat itself down near Dany and the girl. "She faring a bit better?"

"Her fever broke an hour ago, but Ser Randol wants her to sweat it out a bit more before he gives her more of the tincture. She was lucky, since he brought some dried stores of angelica with us – it doesn't grown in these climes, he says, and we didn't want to risk using anything growing here that might've harmed more than it would've helped," the girl nursing water down her throat said in a low, quiet tone.

"So did she miscarry or what?" asked the newcomer, a female with a rasping voice.

"No way to tell, but she was badly bleeding," the girl replied in a hushed undertone, obviously taking stake in not letting the men hear her talk of such delicate, private issues. "We didn't give her any pennyroyal just on the off chance – too poisonous to risk."

The newcomer murmured her agreement, as if she was sagely in this respect of herb lore. Dany got the vague impression that she was not, but the effort the small group was going to touched the young queen. They had no notion of who she was, yet they halted their progress to fish some unknown girl from the grass that could have no possible means of paying them back for their efforts.

"When should the chit heal up enough for us to get back on the road, Lydden?" growled the voice from the other side of the fire. It strung a note in her, and the name the deeper voiced girl called him struck an even stronger chord. Clegane…

But the recognition was easily snuffed out as someone pinching out a candle. It lapsed back into her mind, and Dany could not put her finger on it again. Whether it was exhaustion or illness dulling her normally sharp mind, she couldn't say. She tucked the issue of his name away for later to turn over in her head.

"Little bird, come away from the wench for a while. You've been hovering over her since dusk, and we're well into the early morning. We'll stay on for a few days, but I'd prefer to get out of range of that fucking beast and its hunting grounds. We're easy prey sitting with our thumbs up our arses like this," he said matter-of-factly. Dany gained her first scrap of respect for the growling man. He was the closest thing to a leader this band had, it seemed.

"Stone, make yourself useful and keep watch over the girl. But let Lydden tend her – you're likely to drown the poor chit if your nursing is as good as your cooking," said Clegane. Dany could hear the dark mirth in his tone, goading the rasping girl on like a speared boar.

"You call the shots as gracefully as you shit, Clegane," shot the girl named Stone back at the one dubbed Clegane. The little bird was clearly tuning them both out, making little noise as she packed things away and tucked Dany tightly into the blankets with a brisk manner. Dany got the feeling that she wasn't the first sick charge this girl had ever tended to.

"I shit with more grace than most men – I practically piss excellence in the morning," he chuckled back humorlessly, and Dany forced herself to breathe evenly as the healer called Randol Lydden pressed capable, large hands into her belly to gently probe and shift at her insides.

Then a cup was lifted to her mouth, a sweet trickle of honey masking the bitter herbs as they worked down her throat. Sweet blackness overtook her, and the young queen sent up a prayer to whatever gods watching out for her.

* * *

Light leaked in through her clenched lids, and the queen shifted until she was face down in the warm swaddle of blankets. They smelt strongly of horse, and she nuzzled deeper into the familiar scent 'til she fancied she'd drown in it. It was the most decent sleep she'd had in months, long before she had conquered Slaver's Bay and broke the chains of the slaves.

"Hello," said a quiet voice near her, a body shifting in the grass. Memory gradually came back in fragmented increments to Dany, stiffening her spine as she shot up. That she regretted – the pain in her belly was almost instant, and she doubled up with a wretched groan.

"Be careful! You lost a bit of blood, and you've been asleep for more than a few days," chided the girl gently. It was the little bird of the group, and Dany cracked her eyes open despite the glaring light of the sun leaking through the screen of high grass into the clearing.

She couldn't have been older than Dany herself, but a tall and shapely figure lent her the illusion of a greater age. Hair like a spout of flame fell in a neat braid over her shoulder, and her eyes were a lovely shade of blue set into a kind face.

"I'm sorry," Dany said in the common tongue, gritting out a smile despite the pounding in her belly. The girl winced in sympathy, thrusting a tin of murky, choppy green sludge at her.

"Drink," she said after Dany looked doubtfully at the substance, and then stuck a finger in to spoon the paste onto her own tongue for assurance. "It's just some fennel ground up with yarrow root, so the cramps won't pain you as much."

"Thank you," Dany said after she had swallowed down the bitter aftertaste. The effects were miraculous after a minute – the cramps eased, and she was able to see straight past the pain. It had dulled only to a minor ache, and she focused her effort on sitting up properly to face the girl and the small camp. The other three were involved in various states of busy work. The other girl, Stone as she remembered her being called, raised a hand in greeting once she caught sight of Dany awake and functioning. Barely functioning, as the last juddering cramp seized her and forced a grimace to twist her mouth.

The man called Randol Lydden made his way over to them from mending their worn-out bridles with scraps and twists of used leather, smiling genuinely at her. "She awakens! Like a maid from a tale – we almost lost you for a minute there, my child," he said as he stooped over, pressing fingers to her wrist to feel the strong thrum of her pulse before pointing towards her mouth. She did as she was told, sticking her green stained tongue out for the healer as he checked her vitals and tested the back of her hand with a tiny pinch.

The skin sprung back onto the bones and muscle instead of slowly slinking back over them.

"Your body's humors are back in balance, it seems. But to be safe, you're to drink as much as you can."

Speaking of that, an insistent burning in her bladder was making her twist and turn uncomfortably, but she bit through the rest of the healer's proscription before the little bird took pity on her flushed face and waved off Randol Lydden. He seemed to understand, turning to help the hulking figure of a man tending to an equally hulking destrier across the clearing. That one hadn't acknowledged her presence as of yet, but Dany took the initiative and figured the tall, massive man to be the one named Clegane.

The little bird helped her to her feet, gently guiding her along a rutted trail towards a makeshift latrine. Dany's cheeks burned with embarrassment at her crippled state, but was relieved for the girl's help in balancing her while she squatted over the hole and relieved herself for the better part of two minutes. She didn't seem to find any shame in the act either, joking lightly about how five days' worth of water went into her gullet, and it was a wonder Dany didn't burst like a tight water skin until now.

"I must have sweated out most of it," Dany said after she'd helped back into her bedroll near the banked fire. A spit with a fat hare was being turned by the Stone girl over the glowing embers, and from the toasted brown of its skin Dany guessed that supper was forthcoming. Her stomach growled its pleasure at the thought, reminding her a bit of Drogon in his younger days. The queen glanced skyward, but saw no sight of her child circling overhead for her.

He could wait. For now, she could rest and fill her belly with a proper meal and converse with her saviors to learn their story. They were Westerosi through and through. The Stone girl had to be a native bastard of the Vale by way of her surname, if Dany's history lessons with her spare tutors throughout the years served her right. The two men were too large and muscled to be anything but knights, or at least sellswords. Their accents and vocabulary all suggested that they were too well spoken to be common born, as was the little bird. Fine breeding saturated the structure of her body and her versed tongue, and she seemed to have a wide grasp of herb lore for one so young.

It was later, after the men had joined them at the fire while dusk fell and they poked the fire higher with kindle to give off more heat, when Dany spoke up.

"I'd like to thank you all for aiding me – truly, it was an act of kindness that won't go unrewarded," she spoke, and the roughshod Clegane snorted derisively. She couldn't blame him. Dany didn't look like she could offer them the grass shoots in her hair, really.

"We've moved further south of the place where you found me?"

They all nodded, and the little bird pointed over her shoulder towards the grass screen where the horses were tethered. "We followed the stream a few leagues about four days ago to put some distance between us and…it. The maps all say this leads us towards our destination. We've been riding for nearly two months from Pentos," she managed before a sharp hiss from the Stone girl gave her pause. Apparently she had said too much, a hot flush of red creeping into her cheeks before she steeled her spine and shot a look at the rigid female with short hair. "I doubt she will sell us so short, Mya."

Dany managed a weak grin. "I am no spy, to be sure. And I have overheard bits of your conversation for the past few days. Just snippets, though. May I ask all of your names? I know he is called Clegane," she pointed to the scowling, fierce man who'd fixed her with his good eye. Half of his face sagged with burnt scars, twisting part of his mouth into a permanent grimace.

"And Randol Lydden?" she asked, turning her gaze to the lantern-jawed healer seated beside Clegane. The man gave her such a warm smile that her heart swelled. Rare it was that she found such a kindhearted bunch, sparing Clegane and the prickly, tempered Stone girl. The little bird and Randol Lydden were the softer mannered of the four.

"Mya Stone," she pointed towards the girl with the chopped locks, and she gave Dany a laconic grin that she couldn't help but return.

"And you I do not have a name for. Though I know he calls you 'little bird' somewhat constantly," Dany said ruefully to the redheaded girl of an age with her, then turned to look at Clegane. She didn't flinch from the sight of his scars, and she held his piercing gaze before turning back to the little bird.

"Well. She's too perceptive to really pull the sheep's wool over her eyes, to be sure," groused Mya Stone. "Just give her your names. I am Mya Stone, clever lady," she said drolly.

"Ser Randol Lydden at your service, my lady. Seven bless and keep you," the lantern-jawed man said gallantly.

"Clegane will do just fine, girl," the irritable man said crossly from his spot across the fire. His gruffness reminded her too keenly of Jorah, and a knot of emotion tightened her throat at the resemblance.

"Sansa," said the sweet girl to her after taking up her hand in a warm, gentle clasp. Dany's smile widened, but then all smiles shattered when the girl uttered her surname. "Stark," she finished, her smile still in place. Dany felt nothing for a moment, but then a cool feeling of recollection washed over her. Stone and Lydden meant nothing to her.

But Stark and Clegane meant something.

The image of her brother's children beaten bloody and dead, wrapped up in the red cloaks of the Lannisters and lain out like small bundles on the cold floor. Her brother's wife raped, brutalized and raped again, and again. And again. Before the monster that had crawled his way into the Red Keep killed her for good measure and cleared the way for the Lannisters to slink into King's Landing unchallenged. Gregor Clegane.

The Kingslayer sitting high on the Iron Throne with her father's blood wetting his blade. So much death all in one night.

Stark. The Wardens of the North that had turned their cloaks on her father, allied with the traitor Robert Baratheon. The man who had cleaved his hammer into Rhaegar's chest and spilled his lifeblood into the Trident, just as all the songs sung it.

Eddard Stark had ridden into King's Landing with the Baratheon traitor. Conquering heroes. They had breezed in and turned a blind eye to the brutality the Lannisters had brought down on her house and forsaken every honored vow they had ever made in their lives to their sovereign, taking the vacancy so conveniently  _there_ while she lost everything resembling a home before she was even born.

"I am called Daenerys Targaryen, first of my name. Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.  _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Meereen, Princess of Dragonstone," she rasped in a queer, high tone to the four of them. It might've not been the wisest name to give them, but the looks on their faces proved that words were not wind as most thought.

The Stark girl visibly recoiled in shock. The others didn't seem to know what to do with the information save for gaping and gawking. Even Clegane had the grace to look mildly surprised at the revelation.

"Small world," Clegane said sarcastically to her face, fixing her with a piercing look. "You're having a bit of a control issue with that damn beast of yours, girl."

His insolence riled her in ways she couldn't even put into words, urging her to her feet despite her pains.

"You  _dare_. Rapist, murderer. I'll see you burned and butchered to fit a crime gone unpunished for too long," she grated out, willing Drogon here so she could start reaping what this one had sowed so many years ago. But dragons did not come at silent summons. The night sky remained clear and free of her child's menacing outline.

"Don't tax me for Gregor's sins, little girl. I'm not the Clegane you want," he said unflinchingly, batting off her words like the buzzing of a fly in his ear.

"Your grace," started Randol Lydden, rising from his seat cautiously. "I believe we all need to sit down and calmly reason out many a thing – starting with the events that have gone on for the last twenty years and brought us all here."

Something brought Dany back from the dark edge of rage she was riding. Maybe it was the man who claimed to not be the butchering Clegane she wanted dead and the brutal honesty in his admission, or the pleading eyes of the Stark girl. The daughter of the man who had forsaken her father – his liege lord and king.

"Please sit. There is…a lot to explain," the Stark girl said, and Dany felt her knees buckle. The girl caught her and helped to ease her down, but Dany flinched away from her touch. It was too much to take.

Ser Randol drew in breath, glancing around the fire before pinning Dany with his frank gaze. "I'm sure Ser Barristan will be able to verify a great deal of what we all say, if he reached you as planned. So I shall start. A great many years ago, before you girls were even born, there was a tourney at Harrenhal during the false spring. It was there that a young Prince Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty in place of his wife, Elia Martell..."

And so, Daenerys Targaryen sat in silence, and heard the twenty year tale unravel with each new voice joining in to tell their story.


	14. The Iron Suitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

Waves were crashing on the hull by the time the fleet pulled into the bay of Meereen. Black, noxious smoke coiled up from the pyramids, but Victarion kept his eye on the most massive of the monolithic structures. In all his years of sailing 'round the outlying lands of the world, he'd never seen anything so damned large. The entirety of Oldtown looked like a hovel compared to this foreign hellhole. It was a wonder how the great pyramid was constructed, but he had an idea that these pissing Ghiscari lords weren't coming up short in terms of expendable labor.

It pierced the sky in levels. His eyesight wasn't so damned poor, so he counted out nearly thirty-three of them exposed from the ground up behind the outer wall. Maybe eight hundred feet in all. And unlike the other smaller pyramids littering the skyline, it was short a harpy statue at the apex. Probably the work of the queen who had conquered the city.

They were an old culture – that much the Ironborn knew. Ranging further back than even the Valyrian Freehold and the taming of dragons by Old Valyria.

"Please! Mercy on us, captain," pleaded the broken thrall chained to her other two companions. They had been fished out of the Drowned God's grasps and now had a chance to serve a purpose rather than eating up his dwindling rations needed for the crew. The men had hoisted the great bound horn to the foredeck of the galley and directed the gaping maw of it towards the city.

No party or sally had been gathered to meet them since they had sailed in on the high tide with the dawn. Something was wrong. Victarion turned his eyes back to the seat of the dragon queen, flicking his hand at the crew.

There. That was where he'd find her. At her seat in the stone tomb.

The crew surged forward, practically quivering with pent up energy as a man forced the head of a thrall down to the horn. Seeming to accept his fate, the thrall blew a hard note that shook Victarion's bones 'til they burned in that strange way. Just as they had at the kingsmoot all those months ago.

Sound rode the waves and crashed against the city walls. Surely everyone within ten damn leagues heard the sound, but no great winged serpent rose to greet the summons. The Ironborn waved his hand at the fruitless attempt in a mute signal.

One for the Drowned God. The thrall went overboard into the shallows where Tom Tidewood finished him off with a boot at his throat, the body thrashing under the brackish water until it filled his lungs and stilled him. It was a mercy. Elsewise he'd have spent the hour wheezing through the blackened lungs the horn inflicted on the user.

The next near shat himself at the sight of his fellow thrall being given to the Drowned God, and had practically blown a lung in his effort to sound the horn. Again, no  _mystic_ force instantly summoned any dragons from the smoking city. Victarion leveled a look at Moqorro and saw the Red Priest start to sweat in anxiety. He could practically smell the fear rolling off the man in waves.

"The last!" he shouted to the crew after the failed thrall was given over to R'hllor. Not like it mattered – the thrall was burnt up from the inside out when the heat of the brazier's roaring flames split the man open to show the cinders of his organs. Powerful magic at work, this was.

The woman lifted her lips to the horn, wetness racing down her sallow cheeks as she blew a trembling note. They all waited, and still no dragon rose up from the city at the summons. Victarion bit down on his frustration and hauled himself into the rigging.

"Ironborn!" he thundered from the foredeck to the line of galleys anchored alongside the  _Iron Victory_. Men had massed along the railing to hear the strange call of the horn, and broke out of its transfixing enchantment once he was yelling clear and loud at them. "We're here to gain a queen, sample the goods that a shitty city on the edge of the world has to offer! Steel yourself, lads. Today we reave!"

A roar went up from the galleys that could hear his booming voice, and then swept in a wave down the massed fifty-four ships left to his name since leaving the kingsmoot on Old Wyk. The last thrall went screaming to his men, and Victarion knew that they would finish her off in mercy after their turns were taken with her dying body.

His blood was up. He went down below deck to thoroughly fuck the dusky woman proper for the last time, willing away the bustling sounds of the crew readying the longboats that would take some of the fleet ashore. He'd go parley with the queen himself, but for now he lost himself in the sweet flesh of the woman shaking beneath his hips – each soundless moan and dark curl lightening into girlish sighs and flaxen silver in his mind.

Then he snapped her neck with finality after he had spilled his seed in the wet clutch of her cunt, the reality setting back in. Nothing was left for the poor mute after he'd gone ashore – the only work she'd find in Meereen was slavery and whoring. He saved her the misery. He left the corpse to cool as one of the men came into the cabin to help him into his armor.

* * *

Above, the atmosphere was tense and thick with the smell of anticipation. An army had massed on the shores outside the city wall in the half hour since the horn had been blown – a line of armored knights gleaming at the forefront while armored foot with spears taller than a man lined up orderly behind the meager cavalry.

Across the shore and outside the bricked walls of Meereen, another separate encampment was massed. But they hung back and sported different colors than those dragon banners mounted on the pikes of the greeting army. Yunkai colors on the separate encampment, he recognized. The queen seemed to be wrapped up in her own war with an enemy army massed outside her gates.

There was a task he could extend aid towards. Piss on flowery words and declarations of love – he'd rape the whoreson Yunkai army for her with his Ironborn.

He even saw some Dothraki mounted with the queen's army, but those were few and composed of old men and green boys. Many of the soldiers wore beaten, bronzed masks shaped in the faces of beasts, and Victarion puzzled over that briefly.

"Orders, captain? Lot of companies out there with the Yunkai – I see the Second Sons hanging back in the rear. Then you've got your queen's Unsullied back there with those queer folk in the masks, and the bleedin' whoresons of a Queensguard up front, methinks," grumbled Ragnor Pyke at his elbow. He'd come over from his new galley captured from the Shields, but someone had scoured most of the rust out of his old mail 'til it gleamed like newly forged steel.

"We'll take a boat ashore. You, me, and a few of the crew. That one up front and center is in charge – we'll have words with him and go from there. But keep a landing party ready to row ashore if blood starts spilling," he gritted out. Already the situation wasn't twisting into the expected outcome he'd hoped for.

Victarion turned to the Red Priest, scowling. "Your mumblings and tales haven't gotten me anywhere, priest. We're even for the healing you've done me, now go meet your god." The crew took the initiative to haul off the fat man kicking and screeching towards the brazier, dumping him there and holding him down with their pikes as the fire consumed and whittled down the great mane of white into a black ash. The rest of the body followed – the smell of cooked meat and shit hovering over the deck.

If only she'd ridden out herself with her new husband. Two birds with one stone. He could've killed him and claimed her in one go, but now he had to go through her fucking army to get to her. The gods weren't sufficiently pleased with his offerings enough, he took it.

Fine by him. He'd do it the hard way.

* * *

The longboat banked on the shoals of the Skahazadhan as the small cadre of mounted knights surged into the shallows to meet them. Victarion was the first to hit solid ground. The gold of his cape was weighted down in the water as he slugged through the surf towards the rider heading up the group.

"Greyjoy," greeted old Barristan Selmy after he had doffed the metal of his helm from his white head. Victarion wasn't surprised. Rumor had gotten back to the ports of where Barristan the Bold had gone after his dramatic dismissal from service in that little shit Lannister's court.

Greyjoy mirrored the gesture and took his helm from his head to bare his face. Lank bits of dark hair fell into his eyes, and he slicked the strands back with his gauntlet. The plate was murder in his heat, but he had no fear of drowning this day. Selmy was outfitted in his plate, so it was only fair.

"What brings the Ironborn so far from Westeros? These shores are far from your usual reaving grounds," the old man said with a trace of humor. His long beard was grimy and exhaustion was carefully masked, but Victarion could sense it.

"Not here to fight, Selmy. Here to have words with the queen. Maybe lend men out to help with your Yunkai problem over there…" he trailed off, staring bluntly at the old knight.

"It would be appreciated, and as it stands her grace is unavailable," Selmy replied in a guarded undertone. "Which might be better explained ashore. If I have your word that the Ironborn will behave in a manner fitting their status as guests of her grace, pull your fleet further into the bay and I will extend you the right to dock. The Yunkai have their fleet moored further up the shore – small in comparison."

Anything looked small in comparison to his fleet. With luck, other ships lost might still appear within a week. He nodded to one of the Pyke men and they signaled back to the ships for a rower. One was sent out, and Victarion looked at Barristan the Bold.

"We can work out that problem now, Selmy. I'll send a portion of my fleet down to the Yunkai fleet, if you're quite finished sitting quiet and meek as maids behind the walls, just waiting for them to make a move."

The old wretch looked tempted, but military command had been his game for nearly half a century. Caution was bred into Selmy's bones just as it was ingrained in his. "You can try," he said carefully, "but I have no fleet or sea-able men to send with yours. It will be your loss and gain, Greyjoy."

"That I can manage. Pyke, you and Sparr take the  _Steelwing_ ,  _Grief_ and the galleys from the Shields. Go verse these Ghiscari in real sailing. Keep the ships not going to skirmish crewed well enough against any unwelcome bastards that might try to board us in the bay – but send parties ashore. Where you want us lodged, Selmy?" he shot at the old knight.

"The docks for your Ironborn. I don't trust your kind in the pyramid, Greyjoy, so pick out a retinue and follow me in. That great bellowing you set about doing earlier has raised a small problem in the city, so I don't recommend your men go seeking inns or brothels further into Meereen."

That was interesting. So there were dragons in the city. Up to what trouble, though? Did the horn's sound raise in them a call for feeding? Or did it simply mesmerize the beasts into a placated state for taming? Thousands of questions surged, but he held his tongue and shouldered his axe. Horses were brought for him and the men, and they rode out of the waves and through the lines of Unsullied towards the gates of Meereen.


	15. Sansa VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.

"Get your heels down, grasp with your thighs!" shouted Dany into the wind. They were seven days gone from the small camp set up near the tributary of the Skahazadhan, slowly winding their way down the river proper towards the open ocean. The sea was a haze on the horizon, but Sansa could see it vaguely if she squinted hard enough.

Her Hound had thrown a fit nearly when she had swallowed her fear a few days earlier and mounted Drogon with the queen. It had taken two days of gentle guidance and cajoling from the queen, and a fair amount of distance that needed to be gradually closed by the whole group, and only then the great dragon had come close to them without any threat of eminent danger.

Sansa had dreamed of flying like a bird – maybe a starling or a sparrow, right out of her window in the Red Keep and the Eyrie towards freedom. Away from the world as it fell below her. Now she  _was_ flying. Fear was far outraced by exhilaration as she clutched the heaving neck of the beast between her legs. It was like riding bareback, but instead of horseflesh interlocking scales as hard as iron flexed under her bottom and tore into her breeches. She bit back the little annoying nips of the dragonscales, bending over to grasp Dany around the waist and holler very unladylike into her ear, "Can you bring him about yet?"

The little queen bit her lip, squinting into the whipping wind and hauling at the makeshift reins of chain they had looped circular around the soft bit of scales behind the great crest his head further up. It wasn't constricting or abrasive – the simple pressure on the sensitive area directed the beast about in a wide, swooping arc that had both women screaming in exultation and thrilled fear.

"I've got designs for saddles in the sketches as well, elsewise you're bound to fall with some of the trickier flying," Sansa shouted into her ear, falling silent as the queen jerked her chin forward in signal. Sansa bent over her body as they went into a dive, biting back a scream as the ground rushed up to meet them before leveling out. Drogon clipped the grass with great sweeps of his wings, his lungs working like bellows to where Sansa could feel the vibrations beneath her. It was indescribably mythical – out of a tale. Better than a tale. This was  _real_.

Their ragtag party was making progress along the riverbank while Dany and she practiced the maneuvers in the clear sky overhead. Drogon could tolerate her as long as his mother was in clear sight. The same applied for anyone else, but Sandor and Ser Randol helped to fashion Dany a whip out of salvaged leather to replace the one she'd lost from the pits, gathering scraps from their gear for the 'if' hanging over their heads.

Namely 'if' Drogon remembered he was the dominant species and devoured the group save for Dany. But so far he had slunk around like a repentant dog after a thorough scolding, and the queen had hit her stride in sternness with the dragon. No more mothering for her child – it was strict love from here on out, she had assured Sansa after a night spent over the old Valyrian manuscript.

"This is better than anything in the world," Sansa screamed, raising a bubbling laugh from the other girl as they made a pass over the riders below. Mya waved, engrossed in what looked like another tiff with Sandor. Her Hound met her eyes as they came close, but at least now he didn't blanch at the sight of the dragon. She knew how terrible the fiery creature might seem to him, but there really was no danger as long as he kept his healthy distance. Which he did.

She threw him a cheeky salute, then practically made a vice out of her legs and arms as Drogon decided to give them both one of his ornery barrel rolls mid-dive.

Dany hollered past the wind in High Valyrian, "No, Drogon!" and cracked him one across the flank with the coiled length of her whip. Instead of a brutal pitch that would throw them both to the ground far below, killing them instantly, he slunk his crest down and screeched.

It almost sounded like an apology. Sansa laughed, easing her grip on Dany's poor waist as the dragon leveled out at a hundred feet and rode the thermals like a gliding falcon. Only a falcon sporting leathery wings with a thirty foot span from tip to tip. He was growing by the day since she had first lain eyes on him, and Dany assured her his siblings were growing well enough despite their captivity.

"We should break – we've been aloft for hours," Dany yelled, twisting the chains in her hands to nudge Drogon towards the grass below. He spiraled down lazily, turning the wind to his wings as he landed on his back legs and set the knobby joints of his wing-bones down to balance his front half.

His tail lashed, but instead of the earlier irritation he had displayed the last week it was done more out of anticipation for the fat treat he found in the brace of grouses Mya had trapped earlier in the morning. Dany threw them to her charge after seeing Sansa safely dismounted, knotting the last bird's strung neck around her belt to hold the dragon's attention.

He settled down, slinking on his belly snakelike through the grass as his massive bulk wiggled towards the horses. They had grown accustomed to the burning scent of the dragon and did not spook as easily, but Stranger topped his ears and let out a rumbling nicker. The stallion was firmly against the idea of this great lizard along with his master.

"You two nearly had our hearts popping in our throats with those maneuvers," said Mya after the two of them had mounted Maiden. Dany rode pillion on the little mare with Sansa, and the taller girl winced in sympathy as the young queen covered up a flinch on mounting up. Her internal wounds still pained her greatly, and every few hours she would call for a rest and take more of the yarrow root and fennel to ease the cramps. It frustrated the silver-haired girl greatly, and she hid her pain stoically through the long hours.

"How much further?" asked Sansa as she drew even with Sandor.

"Maybe another day if we speed it along. If the beast would listen to her  _grace_ , maybe the both of you could get there quicker. Follow up with the horses tomorrow for us three, but as it stands the newt won't even turn his head towards Meereen," Sandor rasped, eyes searching the path ahead for any oncoming threats.

She'd tried to direct Drogon towards Meereen, but the dragon still would not follow the directive and fly towards the city with Dany mounted. It was as if he wanted to avoid the place entirely, but the more they drew closer on horseback towards the place, the more Drogon followed them. It cost them valuable time, as a better trained dragon might be convinced to take the burden of more riders and maybe a sedated horse or two in his back claws for a slow flight towards the city.

Even Dany couldn't manage on her own to make the stubborn beast  _go_ , though. He ignored commands sending him southward and winged them back north, west, and east. Any direction but south.

"This would be easier if he would just listen. I do not know why he will not go near there," Dany mumbled tiredly into her hands as they picked up the pace a bit. Throughout the months, they had developed a time saving pace alternating from trots to walks, then full out sprints on their mounts. It was a breakneck pace, but otherwise it would've been many long months of walking towards Slaver's Bay.

Sansa kept her rear going up and down to match the bounce of the even trot, kicking one foot out of a stirrup to lend to Dany for balance.

"Something he smells?" Sansa guessed.

"He flew towards the scent of blood that day in the fighting pits to feed, but now he avoids it like there's something there he wants no part of. Maybe he's wary that I'll just turn around and clap him in chains like the others if he puts his trust in me again…but there was no other option  _but_ to bind them," the queen said in a broken voice.

Sansa had heard the story from the young queen of the little girl. Hazzea was her name. One of many tales that had been traded between the girls over the last week in close company.

The manuscript had been right in saying that dragons were not a beast of burden, nor a tool of war, or a pleasure mount to use at your own whim. They were keenly intelligent, and the week Sansa had spent with Dany and her charge had proven that much. Drogon could fix you with one of those red eyes and you could see him working it all out, critical as a maester in summing up your strengths and weaknesses in comparison to his perfection. He was very proud. And when a dragon had it in his mind to do what he wanted, when he wanted, there wasn't much a rider could do to dissuade him.

That included consuming humans as prey.

Because of that proud streak and keen intelligence, taming him to a degree where he listened to Dany's directives would take patience. But after Sansa had drawn the queen away from the fireside to work over the manuscript she had carried all the way from the Vale progress started – first it was simply getting him to listen to a command. Simple things – kneel, fly, turn right, turn left, bank, stop, land, and so forth. All issued in the High Valyrian Dany had raised all of her dragons on.

Two systems were suggested by the old manuscript. You reward them for the correct actions preformed, or condition the beast with punishment. Drogon was not of a size for proper rebuffs to even be dreamed of – Sansa was in fear for Dany whenever the small girl flexed the whip along Drogon's flanks to reprimand a wrong action. But whatever respect the queen had earned with her dragon stopped him from devouring her whole in retaliation. He started working towards that simple tidbit of praise or fat grouse after every training bout with Sansa and Dany.

Sansa was simply along for the ride, learning more than teaching. Dany had gone through the sheaf of old papers like wildfire, absorbing every detail with a precise memory that had Sansa in envy.

She had flirted dangerously with the notion of keeping the manuscript away from the queen's eyes as leverage. But something in her broke when the queen started up their long talks in the dead of night, when the others were sleeping sound near the fire.

* * *

"No one has ever told me the other side of the coin, so to speak," Dany had said to her one late night after they had started moving further south along the river. Drogon was off sleeping in the high grass, where the sounds of his even breathing was like a smith's bellows working.

"All my life I've had one thing told to me, only to find out some facet hidden. A betrayal. A plot. A curse. But the story of what truly happened in Westeros before my birth was always vague suggestions and outright falsehoods from Viserys. He was…very sick, my brother. He twisted the truth and rested on his titles to get him where he wanted, what he wanted.

"He passed me off to the  _khal_ like something to be traded, and since then nothing true about my father has ever been spoken to me. Hints of the truth from Ser Barristan, maybe, but I was too ignorant and blind to sit him down and ask the truth of the matter. Maybe I saw it all as an ugly thing that I wanted no knowledge of – that it was easier to believe my family the ones wronged entirely – free of the madness Viserys was afflicted with. I was very wrong to hide it from myself," she said in a strong, quiet voice.

They were sitting up in a little hollow of grass near the dragon, away from the camp and the others. Sansa gently touched a hand to the smaller girl's shoulder, scooting in the grass to sit square and close to her side like she and Jeyne once did as children as they confided in one another. The queen didn't draw back like she had done earlier in their short time together. She melded into Sansa's side, fisting her hands in her silver hair and staring between her crossed legs.

"You and I really aren't so different," Sansa had gently said after a long silence between them.

"You are very right," the queen had replied, then turned a rare smile on her. It was the first in many days. "I'm not the only queen in this, now." They threw their heads back and laughed, and Sansa forgot the agonizing divide between her and Dany over that small detail. Her brother's heir, and in possession of the title he had passed on by his death as she was the only living Stark known to the world. Queen in the North.

But the two girls seemed to reach a silent agreement that they would deal with this political mess once they had gotten their feet under them properly, and Sansa made her vows to the queen to do everything in her power to help.

Dany did her a kindness by promising something greater to the northern girl.

"It is very stupid to go promising things I can't give over so easily, especially concerning how…very foolishly complicated our families are and the history festering between them. Let alone what forces tug and pull us apart politically. All our lives these people have underestimated the both of us, passing us off as weak and easy to bend to their own goals. But we have broken free of them all. I from Viserys and those who tried to buy me with promises, you from the Lannisters and Lord Baelish."

And Dany turned to catch her sparkling eyes with Sansa, the amethyst of them winking in the night. "They will regret believing you and I weak, and at the mercy of the world and their will. We will sit high above and have them begging at our feet for the mercy they did not show either of us, or our families. We will rule, and they will fall."

Sansa had felt tears spring up in her eyes at the sincerity in the other girl's words. It was too great a promise and too much not to hope for – to be given back the power never in her possession. To be like this wonderful girl beside her who had the bravery to stand firm against those that challenged her.

"We will," Sansa had said, shaking their clasped hands fiercely. "We will." A wild, happy laugh escaped her, and she felt free for the first time since leaving the walls of Winterfell. Even freer – she was in control of her own destiny now. The both of them were. No more Joffery haunting her dreams with his wormy lips and taunting laughs. No Cersei standing before the Great Sept as Ser Illyn took her head while the queen smiled. No more of Petyr's unwanted touches and manipulations. Dany joined her, their clear voices ringing in the hollow.

"When we're…once we're  _home_ ," Dany had hushed after laughter had died down, practically speaking the word like a prayer, "I want to go riding in the Kingswood and see the Wall, the lands beyond it. Rebuild Summerhall and fly with my dragons across the entirety of the continent from end to end. But I need help to get this all back – someone I can trust. Someone I can confide in," she said in a careful, measured tone.

Sansa reached to clasp the queen's hand in her own. She could offer her all the remains of the Northern forces, and the Vale once Petyr was ousted by the Lords Declarant – the Riverlands once the Freys had been properly punished. Some vows lords could not go back on, and that was the vow of solidarity.

Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell. The Greyjoys, Martells, Petyr especially – all of them would kneel. To the both of them.

"I will  _never_  break my vows with you, Daenerys Stormborn," she said in the strongest voice she'd ever heard herself manage. "Someone once said that words are wind, but my words aren't so. You are my kindred sister, and you…know me better than anyone ever could, because you have survived despite the odds and made your own path as I have. Despite others manipulating and scheming, promising one thing and never fulfilling what they entreated you with," she choked out, her fingers tightening with Dany's.

The smaller girl gathered her up in her arms and clasped the two of them close, Targaryen and Stark tears mingling alike for the first time in many years. Bonds forged only in a few days of acquaintance would be viewed as flimsy and insubstantial by the outside world, but Sansa knew that Dany felt the same draw. Theirs was a bond that had been in the making long before the two had ever met – all starting with how ugly the world turned on two very young girls that had expected different, that had expected a song instead. But they survived.

And two very young queens twined their hands together in the grass, staring up at the stars to point and puzzle out shapes. Dany taught the Dothraki stars to Sansa and their tales, and Sansa etched out the Westerosi constellations for a queen far deprived of her quiet moments like these. And with those stars came the stories of their birth land, Dany falling silent to listen as Sansa told those tales she'd been deprived of all her life into the night.

* * *

A high, keening sound broke the silence. They were all dust coated and weary, but Sandor put the option of riding through the night to a vote. All had agreed to trudge on through the night despite their exhaustion. It was mid-afternoon and the heat was oppressive, and Drogon had the insolence to slink into the river to swim like some great black snake through the cool, murky water instead of winding his way through the burning grass like the rest of them. He held his wings high out of the water like ladies held their skirts out of puddles, propelling himself through the sludgy Skahazadhan with the torsional flex of his long body, powerful back legs and winding tail.

All of them save for Sandor had laughed at the silly sight of such a massive beast being fussy over the state of his precious wings which also functioned as his arms, but they did serve as his greatest weapon beside his fire.

Damp wings meant a grounded dragon, and a grounded dragon was a very dead dragon.

"What in the name of the Seven…" trailed off Ser Randol. He could feel it too, then. The wailing screech of some far off horn that brought the queerest burn to Sansa's bones. It thrummed in her blood, and she felt Dany tense behind her. The horses danced under the tight grip of the reins, causing even Stranger to rear up in agitation despite Sandor's cursing.

"Whatever it is, it's unnatural," Sandor spat after he had mastered his mount. Drogon had slunk out of the river across the path before them, the chains of his makeshift reins clinking against the flexing scales of his neck as he turned south. Sansa could see the red of his eyes widen at the sound, a forked tongue snaking from the black needles of his teeth to taste the air.

"…I think I may know what it is," said Dany in a rush, as if the sound brought a memory to the forefront of her mind. The young queen leaped from the back of Maiden with spryness despite her injuries, bolting for Drogon and motioning frantically at Sansa.

"Whatever happens – keep riding for Meereen," she shouted to the three, her boots pounding the ground before she even knew she dismounted. Dany caught her hand as soon as Drogon reared on his back legs, spreading his wings wide and flinging himself into the air as Sansa fought for a purchase on his neck.

"Damnit, Sansa!" shouted Sandor after her, panic lacing his tone. It was one of those rare occasions where his fear for her outraced his gruff indifference towards her – those instances he used her name.

"Hurry up!" she shouted back to him, smiling reassuringly as all three of her companions turned into mere pinpricks on the shore. Drogon rose, spiraling on a thermal towards the clouds due south…higher than she'd ever gone.


End file.
